The year of the bugs

Thirty-two degrees at almost-midday. Mostly overcast and generally sultry. Waiting for the rain.

I declare this to be the year of the bugs. Normally there aren't any mosquitoes or such-like biting bugs in Carmine Superiore. The breeze, perhaps. Or perhaps there are better pickings in the woods. But this year we're being bitten to bits by all sorts of creepy-crawlies (and not only those with six legs).

I blame the mild winter.

Or perhaps Gordon Brown.