Parents tell the tale of when I was little and got stung on the bottom but whether that is true or just a way of continuing the tradition of embarrassing your children I don’t know.
I do know I got stung at college on the hand between my thumb and pointy finger. It hurt, and swelled and scared all the first aid training out of my teacher who just dragged me to the pharmacy.
Then there was first year at university when a Queen bee moved into my light. Which saw me move into my friends room and sleep on the floor. For days. Yet it refused to get out or die. Not that I want them to die, granted my first fear is always for myself but my second is that the bee survives. It’s complicated being a wimpish hippy. In the end I had to call the handy man to come and unscrew my light before it turned into a hive. I still have the email somewhere reporting the request. In hindsight it was hilarious.
On picnics it is always me who gets the visitors, in my drink, snuggling up to my sandwiches or dive bombing my head they aren’t fussed.
Then last week I was half way through a phone interview with Charlie Dimmock and I heard it. That BUZZ, bash, BUZZZZZ, bash and low and behold, headbutting the window mere inches away was the BIGGEST bee yet. Calmly I worked the phonecable over the computer to sit on the other side of the desk and somehow kept up with my questions and note taking, not that I could hear much over my heart pounding away.
Thankfully when it was over I grabbed one of the reporters who saved myself and the bee armed only with a mug and a mousemat.
The whole thing has even turned into a little family joke, the other day my sister was visited by a wasp and she commented “it must have been looking for you.” My parents claim it is because I am sweet, my friends claim it is because I am ginger.
Whatever it is I wish they would buzz off, pretty please.