You want to get that seen to, you do

You want to get that seen to, says Malcolm as I sink a medicinal brandy in the Village Pub. That looks nasty.

Thanks for that Doctor bleeding Kildare, I reply through the exquisite fumes of Cognac aged in oak casks for at least four years.

The Half Awake Barman sniggers as he pours me another. Malcolm extracts his wallet from his Chinos and slaps a tenner on the bar.

Oh for god's sake, he says. It's only a mosquito bite.

I am a girl's blouse. I am a gibbering pansy. I have been bitten on the arm by a mosquito. It is swelling before my eyes. I decide to take my bite elsewhere in search of sympathy.

Blast me that's a biggun, says the Village Shop Lady, as I invest in another bottle of brandy and a sausage roll, before exiting the premises before the Village Shop Lady has time to enrich my afternoon with any interesting anecdotes about interesting bites suffered by other customers.

Strictly medicinal Vic, I tell the Vicar, who is sitting on the Memorial Bench by the Village Pond, as his eyes alight on the bottle of VSOP Martell, which has been aged for at least four years in oak casks.

Been bitten by a this fly, and... I didn't know they sold VSOP, said the Vicar, moving the conversation away from my ailment. They age it in oak casks for a minimum of four years, you know.

For a moment, I contemplate offering the Vicar a swig. But I take my booty home instead.