So totally pompous I have become, so engrossed by the game of self, so happily inured to the thinking of others, the odds are I'd be assigned a private tunnel by the Community of Moles. Unfortunately there are Ticks. Those little creatures that creep around on their eight legs, then suddenly leap or somehow move great distances to grab hold of a trouser leg, or shirt sleeve, then search for blood to suck. Which they do hungrily and in silence. And when they are gone they leave both puss and phantoms of themselves that also bite and tickle and itch and scratch and may explain why it is I am suddenly drawn to the shaved head, and why I am no longer amused by the word 'Babesiosis' and its familiar symptoms. But which cannot possibly explain why I have also explored both the known and unknown facts about flesh eating Bacteria.
Traditionally, it was always The Artist's role to manage the theatre of ticks and the consequence of their tricky nature. And I realize how excellent she was in the choreography of her expression through movement, dance and word. But I guess she has been tastier than I, or perhaps I should stop hogging the Strawberry. In the good old days my own role was a simpler one. I'd comfort with proclamations about the dangers of Tick deterring chemicals. Occasionally suggest a visit to the hospital for a bite that was particularly unpleasant to look at. I'd hint at the possibility of Tickborne Fevers that decimate human populations, a most slow and agonizing end. And in the good old days too, it was The Artist's role to describe minutely and in endless detail the qualities of the seven or eight varieties of other biting things that are sometimes mistaken for Ticks, and which might well have arrived from the Amazon Delta attached to the feet of creatures that migrate, and which also leave a person twitching, sleepless, bad-tempered and yearning for The Rapture.