The Stinging Truth…

Mammy found herself minion free today. 

Off I trot my solo self to the big homeware shop where I have all the time in the world to wander and dander and ponder how fablis all-the-everything would look in my house. 

As I stand in the lighting section, wondering if the NYC skyline touch lamp would be cool and quirky, or just tin and tacky in her bedroom, Mammy experiences a level of chill that, quite frankly, Mammy has not experienced since March 11th.  

I put my hand back on to the bar of the trolley, deciding that actually, this light would look ridonkulous in my bedroom and as my hand hits the bar, I jolt it back immediately as what I think is an electric shock blasts through the palm of my hand.  

What the FECK?

As I lift my poor hand away from the jaws of the trolley handle, I quickly realise that it’s NOT an electric shock.  The MONSTER is still in my hand and is busy burrowing its pointy arse into my hand… 

I shake it off, and watch as the little wanker of a wasp spins across the floor and under the shelf full of NYC skylines. 

I have been stung. 

I have been stung by a chuffing wasp… 

I have let a yelp out of me and am frozen to the spot… I dance around a little bit, suppressing a scream and glad that my mask is hiding my Crazy Lady grimaces from the poor child who watching me from behind her Mum’s leg.  

The last time I was stung by a wasp, I was 9 years old and my Darling Granda fixed it immediately with a blue ink teabag, icecream and a hug…  

RIddle me this…What the Fuck does an adult do when stung by a wasp? 

 I want my Granda.  I want my Mammy. I want my Him.  I want someone to ADULT right now so I can cry like a 9 year old and feel very fucking sorry for myself. 

The burn is real now and my hand is pulsing. I look down, fully expecting a gaping fleshy bloody wound to be ravaging my skin.  Of course, there is nothing but an angry little pinprick left by an angry little prick… But my poor hand is growing red and angry.  

I reach into my bag with the not stung hand, searching for my phone.  I need to TELL someone I have been stung. My phone is in the car… Feck. 

I’m not really sure what my Mammy or my Husband could have done through the phone to be honest, but I needed to TELL one of them that I have been stung by a wasp.   I can’t ring my Darling Granda… (If he answered, a wasp sting would be the least of my worries…) 

I am stung and phoneless and adult-less and now I DO want to cry. 

My brain begins to entertain the unfolding imaginary drama of having an allergic reaction and suddenly DYING in the middle of the aisle of cheap curtains, and I have to slap myself with a dose of cop-the-fuck-on and wise up.  

And of course, because I am a feckin grown up, and the only person in the store who KNOWS that I have been stung, I carry on as if I’m fine.

I’m FINE… 

 I head towards a quieter corner of the shop, pull the mask from my face for a second to allow some deep-deep-puff-puff-blow breaths, shaking my throbbing hand vigorously. 

Yeah.  Because we ALL know that shaking the burning limb makes it ALL better, doesn’t it?

I wander aimlessly, possibly a bit frantically through the store.  I find myself back in the lighting aisle, and spot the wanker wasp lying dead on the floor. Little shit will get no sympathy from me. 

Feeling in some way vindicated, I hiss at the wee fecker and head for the checkout. 

I can’t say I wasn’t in some way traumatised by the experience. I arrived home and unpack packets of clothes pegs, egg cups and a bottle of Zofloraaaah from the bag.  I genuinely do NOT remember putting them in the trolley. 

Husband arrives home and I’m like a 9 year old, showing him my no longer throbbing, but still fricken sore, poor wee hand. 

He does not have an ink teabag.

He does not offer my icecream.  

But he does give me a hug. 

It’ll do. 

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