Outrageous Ticks

Yes it was delightful at the farm. You could sit on the verandah and look out over the peaceful valley all day long if you had no plans. That is what old Fred used to do, counting the cows, until he died at the age of 96. Or so I heard.

The view takes you like this: you share a wooden bench with another person, looking out. You say nothing for a long time. Then you say, I think the clouds are moving a little more slowly this afternoon than they were this morning. The other person looks towards the clouds and, after some time has elapsed, agrees that yes, they are.

You might think that says it all, about the farm.

I did, until I realised that I had acquired two ticks. Or perhaps I should say that the ticks had acquired me.

At first I thought I had a mozzie bite and that was bad enough. But the itchy spot was suspiciously round and black. I tried to squeeze it out. This is hard when you are on holiday and have been denied the luxury of tweezers, by the airline you have used.

Out popped the round black dot, from the tender white skin of thankfully-not-too-embarrassingly-far-up my inner thigh. I looked at it. It had legs. I squeezed it. It would not die. I didn't know what to do with it; it seemed wrong to let it loose. Then I saw I had another one.

I wrapped the two ticks in a tissue, clutched it tight and paced about the room.