Now, before you get any ideas, they are not romantic endearments – stanzas of rhyming couplets about red, red roses, newly sprung in June.

No, they are more along the lines of "Need more milk", "Can you get some bananas", "Remember, it's bins day" or reminders that we should ring the dentist, make a hairdresser's appointment or get a plumber to fix the leak under the sink.

So as I stumbled down to the kitchen the other morning and saw the piece of paper sitting on the worktop, I was not surprised.

I was, as usual expecting some directions about cleaning out blocked gutters, or booking the car in for a service but I have to say on this occasion he had excelled himself.

There was the usual torn scrap of paper but the message this time was a question and included an arrow pointing to a floorcloth, grabbed from under the sink, which had something plastered in the middle of it. The question read: "Is this a mosquito?"

No "Please buy Weetabix" or "Pick up dry-cleaning." But an inquiry asking if I was able to recognise a small, flying insect from the family Culicidae that is renowned for sucking blood and that is usually associated with hot, foreign holidays, not the climes of Calderdale. No matter how warm the weather turns.

I peered at it closely and since there was a smattering of blood around its squashed body, then I assumed it probably was.

The location of the winged creature was also recorded (the hall).

Now the previous night I had been unceremoniously awoken from my slumber when he threw back the duvet, sat bolt upright in bed and began to wave his arms around.

I assumed he was dreaming about fighting off Claudia Schiffer. Again.

"There's a mossie," he said flicking on the light.

"A what?" I said, half asleep.

"A mosquito and it's buzzing round my head."

On a trip to Paris last year, we had a similar scenario except then I was sceptical about his rantings. The following morning when I saw the bites on his forehead and other bits of his anatomy, I had to accept he had been right. Since then I have learned not to question his mosquito-warning system.

Fortunately they never seem to attack me so I am still a bit laissez faire when it comes to bothering to chase them away.

However, now I should be on my guard – and so should the rest of Calderdale.

This year we are predicted a summer of tropical temperatures. We need no longer count a knitted cardigan as typical British beachwear.

But be warned, with the heat may come one or two visitors who are really not welcome.