The night before last, at 1:45 in the stupidly dark end of the clock, I was stung by a bee. Well, actually, I'm not sure it was a bee. Aren't bees supposed to be fuzzy? This guy was bright and shiny and, if it weren't for the fact that he was bee-sized, I would be tempted to call him a wasp. Really, though, I think stinging me was clearly quite rude, given that my name apparently means bee. Shouldn't he respect me as his human interpreter or something like that? Maybe he was some kind of genetically engineered super-bee, and I'll turn into BeeGirl.
Odd time to be up and about and battling bees (or wasps), you might think. And you would be right — except I wasn't up and about at all. That's right, I was sleeping, and apparently the resting pattern of my breathing was simply a threat too great for this interloper to ignore.
I really have no idea how this fellow got inside in the first place. But my bedroom is apparently a great retreat for creepy crawlies. A couple of years ago I discovered a scorpion in there, clinging to the wall. I'll get rid of most spiders etc myself, but for a scorpion I called my brothers, I must admit. Not because he was large (he wasn't), more because at the time I (stupidly) thought scorpions didn't share this slice of the geography with me. My brothers promptly named him Herb. He lived in a glass jar on the kitchen bench for a couple of months, decapitating the flies my brothers would catch to feed him (and putting me off eating my toast in the process).
No, I have nothing useful to report, why do you ask?