I got stung by a bee this morning. Was I wandering through a meadow full of flowers? Hiking through a dense patch of shrubbery? Throwing stones at a bee gum?
No. I was making oatmeal in my kitchen. With the window closed.
I felt a sudden pain in my foot that felt like nothing I would particularly expect from my cushy sock. In fact, I more or less jumped out of my sock altogether. Then used a wooden spoon to stuff the sock into a plastic container in case the offender, whatever it was, was still in there. Never having (knowingly) been stung by a bee, I was pretty sure I had been stung by something. My money was on “small spider”. The first rule of getting bit: catch whatever bit you, dead or alive, in case they need it for testing later. Nobody likes nine rounds of rabies shots. Or so I hear.
Needless to say, I was not, to the best of my knowledge, bitten by anything likely to carry rabies. Although it did turn out to be furry. In the absense of radiating numbness or red streaks, I went to my meeting. NTS informed me upon my return that my furry little assailant was probably the bee that he had found crawling around the kitchen.
So it was with great forbearance that I, magazine still in hand from a giant fly that would be bothering me no more, forbore to swat this benighted representative of a much-beset species. (I should perhaps mention that windows in the UK and Germany generally don’t have screens, as they don’t have a lot of carnivorous insects in settled areas.) Unlike the blasted fly, it clearly wanted out—it kept flying toward the sunlight—and was just too unclear on the workings of glass to manage it. I caught it, admired its fuzzy adorableness, and released it out the window, whereupon it made a beeline away from my apartment. Success.
Now I’m just hoping that the disappearance of the bees will take place more in my apartment and less in the wild, because today’s trends are disturbing on both counts.