OPINION

So there I am the other day, right in the middle of what would turn out to be the second-best game of golf I have ever played, and one of our number starts doing
a little war dance.

Golf aficionados among you will understand this is most definitely not the done thing.

You will also understand there’s not really much you can do about it other than stare intensely at the other party in the hope they get the message.

Accordingly, I fixed my mate The Ditch Digger with the iciest of icy stares.

It had absolutely no effect whatsoever and he continued prancing around. Only this time he added in some sound effects while clutching at his shirt.

Obviously, something was amiss and so the remaining golfers in our party trudged over to see whether he was having some sort of medical emergency.

Turns out he’d gotten a sting. At that point it wasn’t clear whether it was from a bee or a wasp.

I am definitely no expert on insect matters but I understand with a bee it’s a one-off sting whereas a wasp can happily go on inflicting pain and suffering for as long as it wants, depending on the available fleshy bits it has access to.

In the case of The Ditch Digger, it seems something had got under his shirt and was happily enjoying the ride until disturbed

As we watched, The Ditch Digger removed his shirt, brushed down his body around the spot he insisted was most painful, and shook out the garment. As you do.

Order restored, we continued on our merry way.

Unfortunately, we had to go through the whole process again a short while later when the insect reared its head — or maybe that should be tail — once again.

This time it was obvious for all to see The Ditch Digger had suffered multiple stings and was in some discomfort.

Naturally, being the caring, mature, empathetic individuals that we are, we all laughed.

The Ditch Digger took it all in his stride, called us a few choice names but generally just got on with it which, as I was to discover myself a few days later, turned out to be quite an impressive feat.

So. Fast forward those few days and Mrs P has dispatched me to the clothesline to get in the laundry. It’s a nice, sunny day and wanting to feel the grass between my toes I go barefoot.

Big mistake.

At first it felt like a little prickle I’d trodden on. Then the pain started to kick in and I realised I’d been stung. I have to say it was a bit painful. And it was to get worse.

Luckily, The Ditch Digger incident had piqued my interest in treatment of such matters. I had consulted Dr Google and found some advice, which suggested the best way to remove the sting is to get a credit card and basically push it out using the thin edge, if that makes sense.

I should point out here I simply can’t remember whether that advice was for a bee sting or a wasp sting, which are apparently quite different — one has barbs that make it hard to push it out and the other doesn’t — so my advice should not be taken as gospel.

If you do get stung, it’s probably best to seek the appropriate medical advice.

Anyway.

There I am in ever-increasing pain and I’ve dropped the basket of washing on the lawn and hobbled round to the front deck where I’ve taken a seat and I’m inspecting the scene of the crime, so to speak

As I do so I yell with urgency to my beloved, who is on the other side of the house, “Can you bring me a credit card!”

As I sit there suffering, the seconds turn to minutes and the minutes turned to hours, my beard starts getting longer, the grass in the lawn grows 3 inches and the price of a cucumber at the supermarket doubles — again.

Or at least it felt like that amount of time was passing.

I yelled out to Mrs P again, just in case she hadn’t heard me the first time. “Quick. I need a credit card!”

By this stage the pain was starting to get more than uncomfortable. I’d been doing the best I could up to that point by merely holding the area around the sting as tight as I could. In the vain belief it would stop the suffering. I’m hoping some medical professional will someday explain why we do that. But I digress

By now I have been critically wounded for what seems like ages and I’m sure I’m starting to go delirious. I mean I’ve just seen the guy across the road walk past in a pair of shorts and that never happens. He always wears jeans

Eventually, I can take it no longer and I attempt to push the sting thing out of my foot.

Now I’m still not sure whether it was a bee or a wasp that got me. All I know is that it bloody well hurt so it had to come out

I was pretty confident I’d got it.

At the end of the operation there was a tiny dot on my thumb that I presumed was the sting and the pain seemed to lessen a little once the procedure was completed.

I was to discover the next day that I hadn’t, in fact, got it all out and my foot and ankle went up like a balloon, which was all very exciting and interesting for the grandees who checked in on the video phone thing and wanted a look. Luckily, though, it all settled down and things got back to normal

But back at that moment on the deck all I wanted was to get it out and the pain gone. Luckily, a little bit of laughter, courtesy of my beloved, helped with my recovery.

As I sat there sweating profusely and feeling like I just conducted the first-ever heart transplant, Mrs P emerged breathless and holding a small plastic card. Naturally, I inquired as to what had taken her so long.

It seems my urgent call for a credit card had left her assuming a courier or somebody had arrived out front and I was having to pay for an item on the spot.

Unfortunately, despite a quick search she hadn’t been able to lay her hands on the credit card but she wondered would an eftpos card do?