During the below-mentioned pampering at a hotel in Bad Durkheim, I had the misfortune to be bitten by a viscious mosquito from the Devil's own backyard.

If I am outdoors in clement weather for a duration for more than five or so minutes I invariably meet with such an event; it was therefore of no great surprise to awaken the following morning with no less than five itchy red bite marks, one of which was on my right foot.

As usual I cursed the little insectoid bastards that had taken the liberty of having a bite out of me, but thought little more of it. It was only after Adam and I had deplaned at Birmingham airport that evening, on route to his mother's 50th birthday party, that the itching on my right foot began to drive me nuts.

I was standing in the customs queue hopping from foot to another, scratching my arms, and neck, and whispering to Adam about how awful it all was, and, I imagine, generally displaying all the signs of a Suspicious Person.

However, I soon discovered that my behaviour was well founded on the fact that the bite on my foot had swollen such that the itchy redness had extended well beyond the radius of the bite and that my foot was twice its normal size. Not good. Not diastrous either though as it's happened before - I whacked on a blob of antihistamine cream and went to sleep.

The next morning I felt as Jack must have felt when he awoke to find his seeds were now a giant beanstalk. Whereas the night before there had been an itchy red mark there was now a yellow (yellow!) blister the size of a marble sitting boldly in place. Oh God.

Actual size.

After lengthy consultations with the household Adam and I were dropped at Warick General Hospital's A&E, where, including me, there were exactly three people to be seen but the wait time said 90 minutes. I wished I was back in Germany. Yes you pay 300 euros a month health insurance but at least you're seen on the same day.

There wasn't much else to do in A&E other than photograph It.

I would have been horrified by the appearance of this monstrosity on my body if I hadn't seen it before: please refer to "My first trip to casualty was in Rome, aged 18". Note the description: "...the bites began to swell into yellow marble-sized blisters".

Thus it wasn't a complete shock to me but everyone else was simultaneously fascinated and disgusted, including the doctor, who agreed that it was indeed quite horrid.

He gave me some antihistamines and antibiotics and I hobbled out the door. By the evening, and the birthday party, it had grown to twice its size (and was now being referred to as The Boil) and provided much entertainment for the guests. We all agreed it would be dangerous to board a plane with such a pressurised body part and so the next day Adam bravely volunteered to do the deed.

We sat in the bath, my foot resting on his lap. Using a needle sterilsed via the well-known medical practice of boiling it in a pan, I covered my eyes and he drained ("burst" is so much more gruesome) the unsightly blighter. That, in my book, is true love.

These pictures were taken two days later; my foot was still swollen and red but the blister had gone. It tried to reform but I kept it at bay with a plaster.

This picture was taken five minutes ago. It's now three weeks since I was bitten but the mark will persist for weeks to come.

On Saturday I am going on holiday and will have to keep it covered for the duration so as not to frighten the locals. I have sworn no mercy if anything, insectoid or otherwise, tries to bite me. This is war.