I have never been someone who gets the ick from insects. As a child I would collect ladybirds, millipedes and beetles in an old ice cream tub, spending hours gently examining them, marvelling in wonder at their tiny thoraxes, wings and wriggling legs.

Granted, not everyone is a fan. When I used to flat-share in my early twenties, I lost count of the number of times that I was woken from my slumber by a blood-curdling scream as a spider or moth was discovered lurking in the bathroom shower curtain.

For the most part, I’ve had a live-and-let-live attitude. Yet, this summer something has shifted. Is it just me - or has it felt increasingly like we’re all starring in an unsettling, Hitchcock-style thriller about an uprising of creepy crawlies hell-bent on revenge?

The weather hasn’t helped matters. According to Met Office data, this spring was one of the wettest and warmest on record, a factor which some experts reckon has helped provide the perfect habitat for damp and humidity-loving beasties to thrive.

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During recent weeks, I have racked up more close encounters with biting and blood-thirsty creatures than could truly be considered fun.

In early July, I returned home from a morning run and was mid-stretch when I spotted something on my leg. Thinking it was a stray grass seed, I went to flick it off only to realise it was a tick and hooked on firmly.

At that stage, I wasn’t too worried. Ticks are part and parcel of spending time outdoors. I also have a dog, so I’ve become fairly adept at removing them.

On this occasion, I’m not quite sure what went awry but as the tick’s body came away, the head remained stubbornly embedded. A tiny pinprick black dot on my right calf. Nothing would dislodge it.

I called my GP surgery to seek advice. The receptionist advised me to go straight to the nearest minor injuries unit. Sitting in the waiting room, one shared with a busy A&E department, I felt a tad ridiculous as I looked at the ill and injured slumped in the surrounding seats.

The staff at the minor injuries unit were amazing, assuring me I had done the right thing as that seemingly innocuous, pinprick dot could have led to a nasty infection.

A local anaesthetic was used to numb the affected area, then a needle utilised to carefully remove the tick head. I left sporting a dressing that was big enough to be seen from outer space.

A month later the wound has fully healed, although a small scar remains as a memento. I feel incredibly fortunate that no bullseye-like rash appeared (which can be an early indicator of tick-transmitted Lyme disease). Even so, I haven’t fully relaxed on that front just yet.

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The irony is I didn’t get the tick on a countryside path or rugged, woodland trail, but rather on a narrow, overgrown stretch of pavement in my local industrial estate. Go figure.

I’ve been hypervigilant ever since. If I feel anything brushing against my bare legs, I immediately stop for a quick inspection.

A fortnight ago, I was walking the dog when I felt a sudden, sharp stabbing sensation at the back of my knee. I told myself it was my imagination. The pain immediately ramped up a notch. I looked down and saw a feasting horse fly.

I managed to swat it away and hotfooted it home to slather on a vat of Anthisan. Thankfully that seemed to do the trick and I didn’t end up with the usual weeping crater at the bite site.

Still, at the last count, I’m definitely losing the war against our future insect overlords. Roll on autumn. I’m not sure I can take much more of this.