Monday, 1 June 2015

The Wasp

I wanted to introduce this post with something witty and clever but then my friends decided to send me an obscene amount of BGT related Whatsapp messages and I ended up getting completely sidetracked.

FYI - I can't decide what I'm more embarrassed about. The fact that I know what BGT stands for or the fact that it's the only things my friends want to talk to me about. A television programme that I don't even watch. I'm barely even British anymore, ffs! 

Sidenote: How long would I have to live in Finland before I could officially declare myself Finnish? Never? Okay, let's move on. 

Today, I have a funny, yet deeply tragic story to tell. I've been building myself up to it all weekend. I don't know about the rest of the world, but right now in Finland, it's wasp season. Quite possibly my least favourite of all the bug-related seasons. Except spiders. 

The weather has made an effort at being pleasant this last week and with the greenhouse disguised as a balcony, stuffed on the end of my living room, things have been getting a tad sweaty in my apartment. Being on the sixth floor of our building, which is higher than it sounds, Scott swore blind that we were out of the insect zone. Most importantly, out of the reach of flies and other flying bastards that include, but aren't limited to; mosquitoes, wasps, bees and moths/butterflies. Yes, I'm probably the only person in the world that doesn't like butterflies. *Shudders*

I was quite nonchalant to begin with. Pottering around the apartment, wafting my hair in a L'Oreal advert worthy manner to the breeze. Life was good. 

Until it wasn't.

The first wasp caught me off guard. I wasn't expecting him and I'm certain he sensed my fear. Unable to tackle him amidst the blinds, I placed the bedroom wing on lockdown until Scott returned from work. 

I was shaken but not ready to give up on my easy, breezy, beautiful hair-swishing and well-ventilated apartment. 

But then wasp number two came and shit got serious.

I heard him before I saw him. Buzzing around my greenhouse balcony like he belonged there. No amount of blowing faintly in his direction, whilst hiding behind a Marie Claire magazine was getting him to shift and so I did the unthinkable. 

I reached for the bug spray. 

It was an ill-thought out, moment of panic. I thought that I could squirt a cloud in his direction and he would take one sniff and be like, YO, I'm outta here! Except he didn't. Instead he missiled towards the window, limp-winged and clutching at his tiny, furry chest. As the smog descended further, he fell to the floor, writhing in agony and, if I could speak wasp, was probably screaming, 'YOU HEARTLESS SON OF A BITCH' as his final moments were being played out in excruciating pain. 

Feeling that I could take the guilt no longer, I was left with only one option. I had to beat the shit out of him with a candle to end his misery. 

It was awful. Like one of those scenes in a movie where the hero sacrifices himself to save his lifelong friend; although nothing like that and with more brutality. 

Then this happened:

Followed with something that went loosely along the lines of, 'how could you not call me when you knew I was upset about the wasp situation, surely you can't be that busy at work?!' Only with more expletives and crying face emojis.

Cementing the fact that I'm a horrible person who is probably going to hell. In fairness, I genuinely did cry though. 

Maybe I should see someone?
P.S. Wasps can fly six stories. 

P.P.S. If you enjoyed this tale, you should read my other post, A Dog and a Dead Bird. I'm like Dr Dolittle, only less qualified.  


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