The other day I went into our bathroom and there sat a cockroach the size of my arm. I swear had I not recognised it as a specific species of the Earth I would have convinced myself it was an alien visitor sent to communicate with me via it's massive waving tentacles.

After duly dispatching it into the night, we espied a mosquito hovering about our room. Books in hand we chased it for many minutes. I settled onto my bed defeated. There! It was crawling up my fucking leg. Like a fool I flicked it away. "No!" Rob cried from the neighbouring bed. "Why didn't you crush it?"

"I don't know", I admited.

I now have a bite the size of New Malden on the inside of my right foot. Bah. Now I have to decide wether to plaster it over with a, erm, plaster or to endure the constant itching that accompanies the abrasion of sandel on bite. If only I had crushed the fucker when I had the chance.

The following day we studied a long thin red worm furiously hurtling it's body around in an attempt to transport itself up a beach. It seemed like a thing one would normally only see on a nature documentary. After we walked off a couple of other lads went to study it, satisfied that we had vacated the area. They didn't want to be seen to be copying us. No doubt the worm's journey was followed entirely be seperate groups of lads peering curiously at it. Odds are, one chap would have crushed it eventually.

Which is what I should have done with the bastard mosquito.

Let this be a lesson to you all.