I hate wasps. Come to think of it I’m not that great with all things that buzz
And I have ‘floaters’ in my eye – caused by age related ruddy changes.
The two do not mix.
Eye floaters are spots in your vision. They may look to you like black or gray specks, strings, or cobwebs that drift about when you move your eyes and appear to dart away when you try to look at them directly
Picture this. I’m walking down Bell Street and in the corner of my eye suddenly see a black thing, assuming I have a wasp on my shoulder I start to flap a bit. I turn to the left, and turn to the right, I look up and down. There is no wasp. People are watching me. I continue my walk. I suck hard on my mint and I feel a ruddy fool.
But this does not end. In the supermarket the black ‘thing’ appears again and I flap about like a flipping flapping flapper much to the amusement of my fellow shoppers. No I am not having a fit I say to a small podgy girl laughing at me. Her Mother gives me evils, I am able to mouth Fuck Off as I have my mask on. She does not see nor hear.
Here at home whilst typing it happens again, my scream is loud, the F word comes, I dribble a bit and nearly swallow my extra strong mint. The children rush in to see me with a rolled up Henley Standard, my keyboard swimming in what was once my glass of water, and me, fighting imaginary wasps.
Since lockdown this has been the norm for me.
And so today whilst humming a song I was interrupted by Carolyn screaming from her bath. Her instructions were to go collect the girls from Nettlebed. To leave now. FFS I huffed as I swatted another imaginary buzzing thing and headed to the car.
The sun shone. The sky blue. I opened my windows, turned on the music and sped through Henley. The volume was high, and Leo ruddy Sayer came blaring through the speakers. I quickly turned it down and put on something more to my liking, turned it up and hit the Fairmile to Nettlebed.
As Bix approached I felt good. With the window open and my hair blowing in the wind I sang along to Pappa Was a Rollin Stone as if in a Cinzano ad.
And then it happened, the black floater in my eye, trying to deceive me, making me think it was a wasp or hornet. Not this time you fucking bastard, I know your game. There aint nothing there but a floater. I have nothing to fear.
The sting hurt. I yelled, spat out my extra strong mint, trickled, and noticed something drop into my crotch. I yelled again. You fucking bastard fucking wasp. I pulled into Bix manor as I jumped out of my car screaming at the little bastard, still clutching my bits. I managed to flick the wasp out of the car seat and watched as my arm started to change colour, my crotch began to itch. I felt hot all over and it wasn’t the kind of hotness I wanted.
I collected the girls. Drove home. Ran into the house scratching urgently between my legs as if I had the worst girly yeast infection possible. My arm and front bottom were on fire. I had a rash down my arm. The top of my legs reminded me of something I thought I had forgotten; it was so disgusting I had put it in the back of my mind. Today it returned. Her name was Helga. She was a large Lezza from Germany. That is all I can say.
And so now as I sit, covered in cream, feeling a little sleepy due to overdosing on piriteze, I shall, as Celine would say, think twice and not assume those ruddy floaters are NOT fecking wasps.
I’m off to the opticians next week.
myfamilyandothermillers 