In another life, Bob the mosquito was idly flying, practicing an odd pirouette.
He settled on a curtain and contemplated the mysteries of life.
He thought about the weather.
He fluttered his wings, nettled about not being able to have flown to the O2 Arena to see Led Zeppelin.
He tried looking peeved, but failed badly.
He sighed.

A lady in a khaftan stiffened. She signaled to the man in the lungi.
With practiced, fluid, cat-like movements, she padded towards the curtain and stood still.
Bob’s death wasn’t messy.


I woke up last night and heard my mum and dad discussing mosquito-swatting tactics.
They didn’t take the news about my early retirement too well.