I've not seen a single mosquito since I arrived in France.

I have seen several spiders, though none that would shake my proud defiance of arachnophobia. The occasional wasp has made an appearance. Well, more than occasional, as the unfermented grape must at harvest is perhaps their favourite meal. Ant spottings, especially in the garden, are not uncommon.

To be honest, there have been a fair few bugs kicking about. They crawl and buzz about their business and seem to enjoy the late summer and vintage time as much as I do. It's a menagerie of arachnids and arthropods.

Except for mosquitos.

They don't seem to enjoy it all, because they don't seem to be anywhere.

What does seem to be here, in abundance, are mosquito bites. Both feet, both legs, both arms and both hands; riddled with mosquito bites. There's even one below my left cheek at the moment, lending a certain teenager-with-a-zit quality to my visage. In the wee hours of the morning I wake to find myself scratching bites until they bleed.

So, no. I've not seen a single mosquito since I arrived in France.

But I'm pretty sure they're here.