Viva Brighton Issue #67 September 2018

COLUMN
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Amy Holtz
The truth is, I’m a Minnesotan
We’re listening to Radio 1
in the office. It’s a penance
for putting the young one
through consecutive days of
Radcliffe and Maconie; the
small but significant divide
between our generations. But
their news is just as grim.
‘The wasps, whose numbers
are surging because of the
prolonged heat wave, seek
out sources of sugar. This
means they’re popping
up around beer gardens
in the UK. Drinking this fermented fruit,’ The
Sussex Wildlife Trust explains, ‘often leaves them
inebriated, which in turn makes them more likely
to sting.’
The other presenter chuckles, quips about
finishing all your cider. I snort, “Surely the wasps
are not actually getting drunk. Radio 1 – so
hyperbolic.”
“There have been a lot around recently,” my
colleague says, eyeing our open windows warily.
“If a wasp has a sip of cider, is that like a human
having a pint? So three sips is a guaranteed FWI?
Flying while intoxicated? Geddit?” I hear myself
braying at my own joke and realise it’s definitely
time to get some air. The weather’s been making
us all a little unhinged.
Outside, big gusts of wind buffet detritus from
Britney’s visit to Preston Park - pink feathers,
sequins, cigarette butts - propelling me along on
my bike.
I’m watching as a seagull ferrets a mangled glow
stick out of a rose bush when something barrels
into my face. Instinctively my hand whips up,
swiping for the intruder, only it’s not the usual,
unlucky fly but something
much, much bigger, with a
stubborn meaty, shape. Then,
a tiny knife seems to be
stabbing my lip repeatedly –
jab, jab, jab and I realise... oh
shit. I’ve been got.
A wooziness slows and drags
me over to the pavement, a
wispy fog settles in my head
and – I feel gingerly for the
place where my face has blown
up, throbbing – there seems
to be a poison-laced dagger
dangling from my lip.
“Could I hab a minute wiv the doctor?”
The receptionist looks up at me from her
paperwork and then, wincing, peers intently at the
lower half of my face. In the space of five minutes,
I’ve become The Thing.
“I juss want theb to tell be by face won’t fall off.”
Tapping furiously on her keyboard, she nods once.
“I’m messaging him now.”
The doctor too, can’t hide his incredulity.
“Wasp. Drunk.” I mutter, trying to close my
mouth around the words. I might be drooling.
“Oh,” I exclaim, “not be – the wasps. Doctor, be
honest wiv be,” I say, leaning forward. “Is thiss the
most ridiculous thing you’b eber seen?”
He doesn’t answer, and as he turns to his computer
I swear his shoulders shake. “Ice, paracetamol,
antihistamines. Should go down in a few days.” He
hazards another glance, grimaces. “I’m sure that
really hurts.”
“It’s kinda sexy, though.” A friend says, a day later.
“Well, from that side.”
“It looks like I could only afford half the filler.” I
say, with a sigh as big as my lip.
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