These critters exist for only one reason – and that’s to be a blood-sucking nuisance

The bed bugs that buried Paris in a tidal wave of itching last year were made up by Russia, it transpires. ‘The bedbug polemic was in a very large part amplified by accounts linked to the Kremlin,’ said the French European affairs minister.

Perhaps the Kremlin is now trying to undermine our own land of milk and honey by frightening us with tales of Asian hornets, which like nothing better for breakfast than diligent British worker bees. Or perhaps Russian paratroopers are shaking actual hornets from their boots, like snow, before disappearing into the shadow of Salisbury Cathedral.

Summer is an insect-dominated season. I approve of some insects, but can’t think of any I’d like to share a bed with. The cold, wet spring has meant few wasps to annoy us. We weren’t sipping Pimm’s anyway, but venturing out only for warming fell walks, and it’s not usually hard to keep ants out of the Kendal Mint Cake. 

What have brazenly barged indoors without even knocking are mosquitoes. They hatch in the water filling old plastic containers that the people next door for some reason leave lying around.

Once indoors, mosquitoes make a big decision. Some whine around in an infuriating way, exercising their anti-swatting radar. Others adopt the practice of fantasy burglars and lie low till all in the house are asleep. Then they head for the carbon dioxide I’m breathing out as my contribution to climate change, and they select an unguarded patch of skin – the back of the hand is a favourite.

For the mosquito, things now get complicated. There are six moving parts in the proboscis stinging my hand. Jawlike fixtures anchor a sharp probe; a hollow tube injects vaso-dilators and anti-clotting agents. The drilling machinery vibrates at 30 hertz. I don’t know whether the operation manual is written in Russian or Chinese, but if the mosquito has perfected the toolkit by evolution it must have taken more years than visible stars in the sky.

Yet when I wake and scratch the wound, I’m not a bit admiring of the workmanship, but shut the window and curse the neighbours.

It’s good to have a consistent bedtime routine: something familiar to convey you, with a gradual slowing of the pulse, away and into the Land of Nod. All the experts agree. So allow me to offer a lullaby in the form of mine.

Every night, I begin my wind-down with a cup of Pukka Night Time herbal tea, ideally taken outside, listening to the flutter of bats’ wings and counting my blessings, one by one. I then have a warm bath, surrounded by scented candles and infused with lavender.

Afterwards, as I drift towards the bedroom in my robe with the grace, aroma and zen of a character in a Scottish Widows advert, I am entirely present, entirely at peace. All blue light has long ago been vanquished. All distractions expelled. My wife is in the bed already. ‘Good evening,’ I mutter. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ she agrees.

Next, sliding between the starched sheets like a particularly delicate ravioli filling, I let out a deep breath of satisfaction and prepare to succumb. Then, and only then, I begin my final ritual: snapping my eyes open wide, sitting bolt upright, slamming the main light on, staring around the room at every inch of the walls and ceiling, then ricocheting around the bedroom, a half-naked incubus in pursuit of a lone mosquito.

I have heard it by then, you see. Perhaps even seen it. So now I must kill it or it will disturb me all night. And for the next half-hour it toys with me. I see it, hurl a paperback at it, and off it goes again, its microscopic tongue blowing tiny raspberries at me. I see it, jump, smash a palm into the spot just next to it, and off it goes again. I see it, throw a balled-up pair of socks at it, realise that socks are inherently soft, and off it goes again.

From the bed, where she is watching YouTube videos of people whispering while very slowly grooming a horse, my wife will sigh. It is the kind of sigh that says: ‘Yeah, you get him, babe. I’m so impressed and proud of you. What an alpha I’ve married.’

Some time later, with victory assured, the lights go out and I go to sleep, panting from my exertions. This repeats every single night. Oh, I love summer.