Over the past three weeks I have become a ruthless killer. I track down my victims like a detective, watching them from afar, thinking through where they might hide from me, what they might do next and how best to sneak up on them. I usually lay bait. Sometimes I use a leg, sometimes an arm, just as long as it is something with enough exposed flesh on it to attract sufficient attention from my victim. I wait, poised and still, for the victim to notice the bait and begin to close in on it. Then I pounce, smacking the flimsy thing into oblivion. Its squished remains peel off my skin and float lazily downwards, joining a graveyard of similar victims lying dead on the floor. I smile to myself. My death count today is nine and it's only the morning.

I don't know whether it's after finishing Stieg Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, or simply because my annoyance at the constant presence of mosquitos in my life took a giant leap after I woke up on Friday to find what looked like a minefield on the back of my leg. I've never counted myself as violent or in any way murderously inclined, however this is a whole different story. With these bugs I have no mercy. They seem to have some kind of agreement between themselves. Like they've pinpointed me for some special experiment - how many bites can she take before she goes crazy? That or my blood is just particularly tasty. Either way, I very much enjoy killing these persistent little critters, even if that does make me into one of Stieg Larsson's baddies!

Another reason for my sudden interest in killing mosquitos is that I have just read the whole of the Berlitz pocket guide to Travel Health and let's put it this way: Malaria and Dengue Fever don't sound fun. I am determined not to get ill out here (which I haven't yet - touch wood) because I know that if I do I will get homesick. It's when I'm ill that I feel I need my Mum most. She makes me carrot and coriander soup and hot Ribena. She brings me fans and cold water and sits with me for hours even though I'm no fun to talk to and reads to me even though I'll fall asleep half way through a chapter. Jeez, I hope I don't get ill.

On Friday Alix and I went down to the beach to read and then on to Hotel Colonial to have dinner. We bought hamburgers and liquados. I know I keep going on about them, but they really are the most delicious thing ever! We had pineapple ones on Friday and they were heavenly. Also, after a week of rice and assorted veg (our staple meal) we were really in need of something different, so although the burger was a splah-out (a whole 100L$ - about £3) we went for it! And it was sooo worth it. I have attached a picture of our delicious meal including liquados.

On another food-related note, WE'VE FOUND LETTUCE!!! We were so pleased with ourselves! We have also discovered Honduran coffee which is delicious, although we have to make it by putting hot water over coffee grinds in this sock-like contraption which looks a bit like a butterfly net, only murky brown. The coffee still tastes good though!

All I can hear right now is the football next door. Gecko Corner is right next to a football pitch. It is so frequently used it has barely any grass left, there are no nets in the goals, and the stands are concrete steps. Even so, professional -looking matches seem to be constantly taking place. Hondurans love their football. After beating the Spanish team in the Olympics (which no fewer than 10 different people proudly informed me of within my first few days in Honduras) they have been playing more than ever. The crowds are huge for such a tiny pitch and regularly overflow onto the dirt track roads that surround it. Children sit in trees to watch over the heads of the taller spectators. You can tell when someone has scored a goal because of the sound! Screaming, cheering, chanting, whistling and fireworks! In the middle of the day! I nearly jumped out of my skin earlier when I was reading my book and fireworks went off just outside the house. I watched a few minutes from the window this morning and saw a goal scored. The players ran around the pitch with their hands in the air, or pulled their shirts over their heads like some weird bandana thing and, in the case of the scorer, ran and skid-knelt to the floor, mouthing words to the sky as his teammates surrounded him. What's more, crowds of spectators ran down from the unfenced stands onto the pitch to join in the celebrations. It took another five or so minutes to get everyone back in the stands and to get the game going again, but within a couple of minutes of play the fiasco began all over again when another goal was scored. This is how football is played in Honduras. It is unorganised, incredibly loud and extremely passionate - like a lot of other aspects of the culture here.