Wasps are bastards
aren't they? Or so legend would have it, I disagree, and since
reading
this in the paper yesterday even more so. It is difficult to
avoid them at this time of year since they are everywhere you go.
Especially if, like me, you live with people who like to spread jam
all over the kitchen in the morning, before leaving the lid balanced
jauntily on top of the jar in an amusing trap for unwary jam jar
picker-uppers later on. As I write this, my resident wasp, Edgar, is
buzzing cheerily round my head while George Orwell (the kitten) bats
at him playfully. We are all ok, we are in an harmonious existence,
Edgar is enjoying his jam and not even George Orwell has been stung
(although he would deserve it).
At this point I
probably need to point out that we are pretty sure I am allergic to
wasps and might die a bit if I get stung. We found this out back when
I was 18, and after quite a lot of Special Brew in the park (I know,
classy) I leaned on a wasp. I did not notice for a while but
eventually looked at my hand and saw a big yellow stripey arse (only
its arse, the rest of the wasp had snapped off) sticking out of my
finger. I did nothing about it, and went on to the pub, having just
enough presence of mind to take off my rings so I didn't lose a
finger.
The next day my hand
had swollen up like a blown up rubber glove, and looked hysterical. I
went to the doctor, who suggested I was allergic to the sting, and
next time it would be more serious, and eventually I might end up
slightly dead. But then I might not be at all (I miss my 90s Doctor,
she always had a fag on the go, and enjoyed ambiguity in her
diagnoses) either way, I had to put my arm in a sling for two weeks
while the swelling went down. Imagine that, an 18 year old lad, out
looking for ladies, and explaining that he has been put in a sling by
a wasp. Not until I had my arm broken by a puppy ten years later did
I feel more inadequate explaining my injuries.
This still did not
make me do the scary wasp dance when one came close by. If anything,
it reminded me of my mother's advice, 'stay still and it will go
away,' which after years of being a little fat kid who ran around a lot and got stung (without a hint of an allergic reaction I might add) I eventually took and it worked. Sadly like most mums, mine does not
follow her own advice and does a little shimmy if one comes near her.
Even though she likes wine, and
there is research to show that without wasps, we would not have wine.
However, I don't
know anybody who has been stung as an adult who doesn't tell the
story of the sting without adding the caveat, 'of course it was
entirely my own fault'. Except for those people for whom nothing will
ever be their fault, and believe the wasps should have made their
home somewhere where they wouldn't be poked with a stick. I include
absent minded swatting at your head and accidentally grabbing the wee
yellow chap as being your own fault here. Wasps are not as aggressive
as they are made out to be. They do pollinate flowers, and without them we would not have thought of paper.
A year after the
wasp sting incident, I discovered a wasp nest in the eaves of the
verandah outside my window. At this point I feel compelled to explain
that in a rookie mistake, my parents had allowed me to move in to the
second reception room of their sizeable Victorian residence for a
bit, after I had once again run out of money, broken some furniture
and been evicted from my crappy bedsit, hence the verandah.
Away from the
sidetrack though, I showed my father the wasp nest, and in his
characteristic way, he said we should probably keep an eye on that,
never thought of it again, and left it in the hands of his wildly
irresponsible son, who as we now know, is probably allergic to wasps.
It turned out that my father's laissez-faire, cavalier attitude to
house maintenance and parenting was for the best though. That summer
I saw less wasps around than ever before. Barring their first week or
so when they were just saying hello, they went to other places, and
didn't bother me in the least. I am certain
that they were off exploring, and defending their territory (me) from
any other wasps. The lovely little yellow guards (don't forget they
also make wine taste nice, yay wasps).
Wasps no longer
scare me in the least. Very little does. I'm not just trying to sound
a bit hard there, there are plenty of things I don't like, and so
don't do, but I'm not technically scared of them. It's surprising,
since as a child I was terrified of pretty much everything. I was
famously carried out of Raiders of the Lost Ark by my mum because of
the melting Nazis, and again in Superman 3 when that woman gets
turned into a robot.
I had to sleep in my
sister's bedroom after watching the Omen, though, again some blame
has to be attached to my father there for thinking it was a good idea
for an 8 year old to watch the Omen. Still, it was thanks to Dad that
I came up with beer and zombie nights for my step-kids back when they
were small, and I think some of the scars I bear from seeing a man
impaled by a church steeple have been passed on to another
generation, through the medium of cheap lager and Hellraiser 2. They
say they enjoyed it though.
I don't like flying
and I have an irrational fear of fish I can't see, but I go on
planes, and I wade through rivers regardless. I talk amiably to wasps
when they hang around me, and I've started sharing my lunch with them
by leaving them their own bit of chutney on the table in the garden.
We have come to an understanding, they can probably kill me if they
fancy it, and I can definitely kill them if I want to. So we have
gone for an uneasy peace of mutually assured destruction. It was
briefly broken last weekend when my friend Phoebe killed a wasp for
me in the pub, but me and Edgar have talked it through, and in return
for some extra chutney, they're going to let me live. Phoebe needs to watch her back though, apparently.
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