Before Thursday, I'd only been stung by a single wasp my whole life. By the end of that day, my wasp-sting tally increased by 300% and one of the culprits was dead at the time; if these trends continue, I'll wind up looking like that pin-cushiony chap in Hellraiser.
"But how did a dead wasp sting you?", I hear you ask (your voice a-quiver with intrigue).
By leaning on it; that's how.
Despite knowing it was there and being mindful of its position throughout my conversation and the perceived threat, I still managed to rest my arm on its mangled corpse to receive its beyond-the-grave vengeance. And I won't lie: it bloody hurt.
The scene of the crime was a pub-garden picnic table, and my one mistake was wearing short sleeves. Within seconds of the second squishing - my friend Stephen was the initial culprit what with his deep-seated hatred of flying beasts - my arm began to throb, and that's how an ignorant thirty-something learnt the stinging potential of a recently-deceased hymenoptera.
Having read up on the subject for minutes, literally, I discovered wasps release a scent at death that causes other wasps to attack. So this could be why I wound up in the line of fire again. Half an hour later, a second wasp disappeared down the back of my shirt and stung my neck in an awkward place. While this was painful, it wasn't as bad as the first one because I'd presumably hardened to the experience by this stage Still, I didn't expect my sting tally to increase at such an alarming rate. All par for the course with British summertime I guess; little stripey gits.