Stings
On Saturday I was stung by a bumble bee. A great big fat one.
I haven't been stung by a wasp or bee for ages, probably a decade or more. Guess I'm just more careful than I used to be.
Years ago, one holiday in the very far north of Scotland (further north even than where Mr Stuart lives), I stumbled across a wasps nest hidden in the heather. I didn't notice them at first, but soon I was covered in a swarm of the evil bastards. Now if someone tells you that after the first few stings you can't feel anything, you have my permission to call them a lying fucker. I felt every one of those sixty-eight stings and each one was just as painful as the last.
As it happened, the place where this memorable incident happened was about six miles away from the house where we were staying. I marched (there's no other word for it) all the way back at a pace no one else could keep up with. Not even the adults, who had much longer legs than me. By the time I got home my body had burned up all the venom and I was just left with an adrenaline afterburn. My mum took me to the doctor, but by the time we got there I was just about back to normal. Over the course of the next few days most of the stings scabbed and went itchy and horrid, but as a kid you revel in that kind of thing. The grosser the better.
A week after the incident, I fell off a cliff at my uncle's farm and broke my leg. What a holiday!
But I digress. My bee sting made me all milky-eyed for the past, but it also made my wrist (whence the deed took place) swell up to about the size of a two-month-out-of-date litre carton of tomato juice (or tomato juice, if you're American). For most of the weekend I was unable to do much more than sit around moaning quietly to myself (so no change there then). It's gone down now, but it itches like hell. I'm waiting for the scabs and pus.
I guess I should have gone for a long run.
I haven't been stung by a wasp or bee for ages, probably a decade or more. Guess I'm just more careful than I used to be.
Years ago, one holiday in the very far north of Scotland (further north even than where Mr Stuart lives), I stumbled across a wasps nest hidden in the heather. I didn't notice them at first, but soon I was covered in a swarm of the evil bastards. Now if someone tells you that after the first few stings you can't feel anything, you have my permission to call them a lying fucker. I felt every one of those sixty-eight stings and each one was just as painful as the last.
As it happened, the place where this memorable incident happened was about six miles away from the house where we were staying. I marched (there's no other word for it) all the way back at a pace no one else could keep up with. Not even the adults, who had much longer legs than me. By the time I got home my body had burned up all the venom and I was just left with an adrenaline afterburn. My mum took me to the doctor, but by the time we got there I was just about back to normal. Over the course of the next few days most of the stings scabbed and went itchy and horrid, but as a kid you revel in that kind of thing. The grosser the better.
A week after the incident, I fell off a cliff at my uncle's farm and broke my leg. What a holiday!
But I digress. My bee sting made me all milky-eyed for the past, but it also made my wrist (whence the deed took place) swell up to about the size of a two-month-out-of-date litre carton of tomato juice (or tomato juice, if you're American). For most of the weekend I was unable to do much more than sit around moaning quietly to myself (so no change there then). It's gone down now, but it itches like hell. I'm waiting for the scabs and pus.
I guess I should have gone for a long run.
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