Open Writing

Doubtless there are times when my adoring fans consider that I make far too much of the fact that I am from the Broad Acres of Yorkshire, and they probably have a point to that particular criticism. It is unfortunate for them that a large part of the total population of earth’s creatures do not share their opposition, but rather celebrate that fact and do their very best to cash in on my blessing.

You will appreciate that I am not trying to cash in on my good fortune of not being born to the west, north, or south of the ancient borders, but was birthed well inside the sacred bounds so that it is well and widely known that I am qualified to play cricket for the County, or would do were it not for two insurmountable barriers. First, I have never been asked to join the team, and second, I can’t play cricket for toffee.

Apart from these minor barriers you might well have found me feted in the records books alongside, or even ahead of, such worthies as Jack Hobbs, Sutcliffe, or that shy and retiring Master of the Bat, Sir Geoffrey Boycott. It is possible that I could have outgunned Fearless Fiery Freddie or taken more wickets than the gang of desperadoes that broke into the stump factory and hoisted three years’ supply of them. But I digress.

As my beloved Gay made comment on the many slow-to-heal scars and bite marks in transition to becoming scars on my extremities, "You sure get bitten a lot!" I was forced to agree with her because it is true, and I have the evidence to prove it. Yet, despite the insignia of various attacks spread around my integument, no sound of complaint escapes my lips. My infirmities I bear with an air of resignation that would have impressed Mohandas K Gandhi.

Although I might give a pass to those vicious little Fire Ants that infest my gardens, because they are not looking for high quality nutrition when they bite, Rather they seek to drive away those they tag as ‘invaders,’ including the householder. Since they live rent-free on the property I’d like to ask one of the diminutive blighters to precisely define what they understand by ‘invader.’

So far the little beggars have been too busy sinking their microscopic jaws inside my outsides and injecting liberal doses of non-prescribed formic acid as dire warnings that if I go into ‘their’ garden again, I’ll get more of the same.

However, the creatures that sluggards are directed to go to and consider their ways so that they too become wise and busy themselves with good works are defending their colony under the delusion that they have a right to tread wheresoever they will, but that I do not. It is a very pretty legal point, although I doubt that it has ever been before a court of law for a ruling.

The upshot is that having little in common with the denizens of the formicary, and realising their errand when they do their dirty work on my flesh, I count them as automatons without the ability to discriminate between those of noble blood and those of no blood at all. For that compelling reason, I do not take their anti-personnel activity seriously, but consider them much as I considered the Ægyptians that took exception to my presence in the Suez Canal Zone in the 1950s.

To be fair I should point out that there were a few other soldiers, airmen, and an assortment of oddments in all kinds of uniforms that were assigned by the War Office to assist me in my commission to hold onto the waterway against the wishes of its rightful owners.

Naturally, the Ægyptians took exception to my presence, and were none to pleased with the rest of the chaps who helped me out. Like the ants, they wished me and my troops would quit the place, although admittedly with a stronger legal claim than the insectivoreæ held to have me do so.

Their Guerrillas, or Freedom Fighters - in all conscience I cannot call them terrorists - shot, bombed, decapitated, stabbed, and mutilated my comrades on a continuous almost daily basis. By good fortune born of Providence I was spared from being sacrificed on the altar of retribution as reparation for the sins of my own nation as it dithered during the last throes of its outworn Imperialism. I could no more blame to Ægyptians that I could the ants, although one lot was clearly deluded, whilst the other lot clearly was not mistaken. I have wandered far from the point of this epistle so I will regroup and make the point with celerity.

I am bitten by mosquitoes and other parasites and biting creatures that strike in the night far too often, and I also have the marks to prove that. My constitution is such that if it itches I scratch it, and if it continues to irritate, I scratch so vigorously that I destroy the zone down to a deep level. If healing takes place, an event that is not assured, then it takes an age to do so and leaves behind and indelible unnaturally hued scar to mark the spot.

Today, as Gay and I were discussing the possible reasons for my being the target of so many predatory insects that bite, sting, gnaw, chew, inject, deposit, and otherwise interfere with the integrity of my integument, I had a sudden flash of insight.

"Eureka!" I cried.

"What did you say!" said Gay, almost turbulent, having imagined that I had directed a slighting remark at her.

"I’ve got it!" I translated.

"Got what?" she demanded, thinking that whatever it was I had got might be contagious.

"I know why mozzies, fleas, ticks, cockchafers, spiders, and nameless biting horrors of the night enjoy sucking my blood."

"Why?" she inquired, her composure regained.

"Because I have Yorkshire blood flowing through my vessels and as far as blood goes, Yorkshire blood is the premium, the Gold Standard, The Jersey Cream of Haematology, and they want it so they too can have bragging rights about their vital fluid."

Although I didn’t see anything funny ha-ha in that information, Gay did. I could tell that because for some reason, as yet not divulged, she burst out laughing so vigorously that in spite of wearing a seat belt, she almost launched herself through the open window of our northbound SUV.

And now when I am bitten by one or more of the creepy crawlies, I do not take issue with the vampiristic creatures, but rather welcome them, with open arms and invitations to feast all they wish, even unto repletion, on my acres of exposed bare flesh, and carol them into the Grand Company of Yorkshirefolk with several rousing verses of Ilkla Mooar Baht ‘At.

I know it works, because the last lot that came to the bloodfest waved goodbye after they were done cramming their juicy bodies with my bodily juices’ and I swear I heard at least one of them say,

"Nah then, lad. Thanks for’tsupper. It wer reight graand. An’ if tha’ll ‘ave us back, then that juss thee traah an’ stop us cummin’!"

© 2008 – Ronnie Bray