Gandaman is the mosquito's public enemy number one. He squishes them here, he smacks them there, he splats them here, there and everywhere. In the middle of the night he'll turn the light on, and stalk round the bed, carefully frisking every inch of mosquito net to flush them out. The ones that escape, in return, bite every inch of his bare flesh.
This all works to my advantage. He is the tastier of the two of us, and given a choice, Mr and Mrs Moz always go for the no-extra-cost gourmet menu, i.e him. But he is not here, and Brian and Shirley need to eat, and the chewy old gristle (i.e. me) will have to do.
This is unacceptable. He gets back in eight days.
PS. Back to the deep-fried grasshoppers. I think it's the deep-fried that's the clincher. Isn't everything nicer deep-fried?
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Have you tried one of those high pitched things that gives off a nasty sound they don't like? No, not a young child, they're electronic.
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