The old garden has been a bit neglected in recent times. I can’t deny it. It’s a disgrace.
It’s a disgraceful disgrace.
To my credit, I’ve been trying lately and I have managed to hack a path through the jungle but still, this is a big garden and it won’t be tamed overnight. This is no normal garden with a few flower beds and a hydrangea bush in the corner. This garden has a full-grown bay tree waving in the breeze and by the way, if anyone would like a branch of said bay tree, they’re more than welcome to take it away.
But as always, I digress.
The area beneath my beloved bay tree has become a little overgrown. The small stone walls that I so lovingly constructed all those years ago have become occluded with ivy and I thought it might be a nice thing to rediscover them, not only to me but also to my friends. Small walls. Footpaths. Potential for sitting down together talking about important emotional things. Sharing a glass of wine. Meetings of souls.
What really happened: I started to drag away at ivy and overgrowth when my hands began to sting and I thought fuck! Nettles.
And then I thought, Flying nettles. Small yellow flying nettles stinging me on the arm, on the neck, on the face, on the ears.
And then I thought, Run!
And so I found myself in the kitchen, slathering my painful places with vinegar because I’d been told that wasp stings are alkaline and you should apply something acidic to neutralise them.
And they were right. It did ease the pain.
Now, I’ve always been blessed with a constitution that doesn’t react much to anything except bigotry, so I didn’t immediately think we’d all be going to A&E. That wasn’t going to happen, but at the same time, my arm and my ear hurt like fuck.
I can understand why my arm hurt since that’s what I was using to tear their home out of the ground, but my ear? Do they think I’m a closet Barry Manilow fan?
Why did the wasps attack the most inoffensive organ in my body? That’s what I don’t like about wasps. Their stupidity. Could they not understand that we share a big garden. I hate Barry Manilow and we could probably all get along just fine if they’d let me know what they like to listen to.
As it happens, I’m currently preparing an alternative playlist for a hostelry I love dearly apart from one thing: the same fucking songs on the stereo day after day after day after fucking day, repeating hour after hour after hour after fucking hour.
I will happily donate this playlist and all my hours of work drawing it up if only I no longer have to endure this relentless repetition of musical sameness.
For all I know, the wasps that attacked me are the same ones who hang around my local hostelry. For all I know, the only reason they attacked me is rage and frustration at having to listen to the same shit day after day.
Perhaps this is how I will live in peace with them. Instead of spraying poison, maybe I should just put new and interesting music on the stereo.