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Last week there had been a wasp in the house and we’d talked about how wasps can build nests the size of an attic and freaked Phoebe out. She was a bit scared to go in the garden because of the wasps and we explained how wasps pretty much never sting you and as long as you leave them alone they will leave you alone and that in my 55 years on this planet I’ve only been stung by a stripy flying creature once or twice (and I don’t think ever my a wasp), but she has remained fearful. Yesterday at Mother Shipton’s Cave there were quite a lot of wasps in the food area and Phoebe was freaked, but again I explained that wasps aren’t anything to worry about.
Today we stopped for lunch and sat outside. Phoebe was worried about wasps and the seats weren’t too comfy so we went inside. Early on something buzzed in my ear but I waved my hand and whatever it was went away. Then about ten minutes later when I’d been sitting still, doing nothing, I felt a sharp pain in my arm and looked down to see some kind of flying insect there. I flicked it away with some force, but it was too late. It had stung me. I am not sure if it was a wasp, a bee or a hornet, but that didn’t really matter. After the message I’d tried to drum in to my daughter I had now been stung by a wasp, in spite of not doing anything to it. I mean I’d waved it away minutes before, but had the wasp been so annoyed by that that it’d decided to come back and wreak revenge on me. I don’t know. All I know is that it hurt and that by being stung I had probably confirmed the complex that my daughter has been building up and had ruined her life. She would never go outside again. Or, as this had happened inside, ever go inside again either.
I waited to go into anaphylactic shock, but all that happened was a slightly raised area appeared on my skin and the pain continued.
We had another pretty great day apart from that. We’d been to York’s Chocolate Story first thing, which was good for the kids, if not for this particular chocolate addict who is still trying to kick the habit. Ernie got some good laughs answering some of the guides questions - when asked how many Kit Kats were made in a year he shouted “A million gazillion” which the tour guide admitted was close. He then made the typical successful heckler mistake by not basking in his victory, but chasing the laugh and shouting out stuff, some of it utter nonsense. Showbiz is tough, kid.
The man who showed us how to make chocolates presented me with a special bar saying “Taskmaster Champ” (I think he was going to write Champion of Champions but misjudged the space available). At last being on TV pays off. Except I am trying to give up chocolate. After this bar. I can handle it.
After being stung at lunch (tourist prices are crazy) we went up to Jorvik Viking Centre and the Viking lady who welcomed us judged Ernie correctly by asking him to find where he thought the Viking toilet might be on the reconstructed dig beneath our feet. When they found it she said that you could see a Viking using the toilet on the trip round the diorama and that a huge coprolite (fossilised turd) was in the museum afterwards and that Prince Charles had once held it. But then that family are clearly into some weird stuff sexually speaking. God knows what William would try to do with that.
We saw the turd. It was pretty impressive. Strange to think that if you do a bit enough shit and have a bit of luck with it getting preserved that it might end up in a museum. Ernie quite liked seeing the weapons and was impressed that the male guides carried knives, but was disappointed that he couldn’t buy weapons and guns in the shop after. I told him he was too young for real guns and that he might shoot people with it, but he said he’d just shoot flowers, which didn’t make things better to be honest.
Then back to the Air BnB to watch the Lionesses take on Germany. Phoebe told me she’d had a dream where England were in white and Germany were in blue and Germany had won 3-2. When I saw that Germany were - more or less - in blue (ish) (all right green), I thought it was worth a punt. If her dream was right I would win almost £500. To make myself feel less treacherous I also bet on England winning 2-1 (though the bets were, of course, for that result to happen in normal time). Once the game was going Phoebe said that she thought that one of the goals in her dream match had been scored by a boy and my confidence in her powers as on Oracle were shaken. But as she’d told me (before I knew I had cancer) that I’d be the next in the family to die and then about five months ago that I had sixteen months to live, I am slightly relieved that she can’t see the future.
A fantastic result that was almost better than having £500. I have been alive since 1967 and thus never experienced anything like this in my life. The kids followed the lead of Kelly and took their tops and danced around the room. Maybe I should have done that too.
