The Sting

Can I just say, ow. Ow, ow owowow. I don't know what it was, but it got caught in my hair this morning on the way to the station, and when I put up my hand to investigate, it stung me. Or possibly bit me (or perhaps, if it was in truth a small flying demon, stabbed me through the finger with its invisible and very small screwdriver). Whatever it did, it bloody hurt, and then I could still feel it scrabbling in my hair (cue cutaway shot of woman under railway bridge dementedly shaking hair and squeaking like rabid dog).

The subsequent stream of consciousness followed: "perhaps it was a wasp, don't people sometimes collapse and die from wasp stings, never been stung before, perhaps I'm going to die, oh well, at least I'll die in good boots. Is it still in my hair? not going to put hand up to find out, if I'm still alive at Truro there's a mirror in the loo, I'll look there."

And, in the previously mentioned British sense of apathy in the face of impending doom* I got on the train and went to work.

Disappointingly, it didn't swell up into an impressive and appalling looking wound (always much better for eliciting sympathy or alternatively, getting out of typing), however it still throbs, and not in a fun way. So I say again, ow.



*ok so it was more a reluctance to demand more bread but still.