On Sunday night I was stung by a bee. On my finger. On my balcony. Bees love my apartment. They often find their way in, even when the doors are closed. It’s a mystery to me. Every morning on the balcony, half a dozen tiny apine corpses. Anyway, there I was, 11pm, thought I would grab some laundry off the rack on the balcony when:

“Ouch. Oh, ow, OW OW OW, OH MY GOD AAARGGH AAARGH *&%$@#!!!!”

That was one of the most painful things I have ever endured. And probably the most calories I’ve ever burned standing still, the speed my pulse was going! Luckily, it appears I am not allergic to bees, because I didn’t pass out and my hand didn’t fall off.

If this was a paranormal romance novel, I would soon begin to develop a mysterious power over bees and learn to meld with the hive-mind. I would seek out the assistance of an apiarist who would, of course, be handsome and single (and hopefully stinking rich) and we would then proceed to Save The World whilst falling Passionately In Love.

Sadly, this is the real world and all I have is a slightly swollen finger.

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