|Borrowed from www.monster-munch.com|
Half way through this mow-fest I’d turned into Sweaty Tomato Man. The sun and unaccustomed exercise had conspired to make my skin glow like a tramp’s brazier(*), and the mower’s electric chord - which I swear is alive - was driving me to use language unheard since my days as a merchant seaman.
Cue the attractive female neighbour bearing gifts.
Turns out she’d spotted me and my mower going through our Ultimate Fighting routine and decided to reward me for an earlier act of kindness - I’d used my male cunning and engineering prowess to figure out the exact hole in her car down which to pour the windscreen washer fluid.
I accepted her lemonade and chocolate chip cookies and we sat and sipped and chewed and chatted awhile.
The conversation turned to bumble bees and, as we talked, a wasp landed on my bare leg. “Not to worry,” I said. “It will only sting me if I make a sudden move.”
You guessed it. The little shit stung me.
I hate Mondays.
* - a tramp, for our American chums, is a bum or vagrant. Brazier is a container for fire, usually an oil drum sporting strategically hammered holes, and not a misspelling of tramp’s brassier - an altogether different kind of fire hazard.
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