Greetings, Salutations and All That Jazz,
Yesterday our trio were run out of town by a pail of wasps.
It began as a pleasant morning: I, sitting with my coffee, listening to the general hubbub of life bubbling around me, when a wasp casually flew passed my nose and landed on the kitchen table. Somehow, the little bugger had managed to find a weakness in our fortified canvas home and was buzzing around like he belonged there.
Being nothing less than a lady, I offered our uninvited winged guest a spot of tea to which he politely accepted. The creature, approximately 3cm long, introduced himself as Scout, self-named after his favourite character from the famous “To Kill a Mockingbird” (wasps name themselves you see). Having read and adored the Harper Lee classic, I falsely assumed a bond had been forged between us as our literature chatter continued. We agreed on many things – the role of ‘environment’ as a character in literature, the wonderful Lewis Carroll, how “The Finkler Question” sucks, and we both found “Anna Karenina” a beautiful, disturbing piece of art. It was lovely.
The conversation took a turn when Emily Bronte’s “Wuthering Heights” was raised. I argued that just because Kate Bush thinks it a romance, doesn’t make it so. A fan of both Kate Bush’s interpretation and Wuthering Heights as a romance, Scout took offense. Things continued to deteriorate: Scout declared with a rather pompous tone, the Harry Potter series a sham- a jigsaw puzzle compiled of plots and characters of the great classics. He may have won points with husband H. but I was dismayed, and somewhat murderous at the slander of the world and characters I hold dear. Then he had the nerve to blatantly dismiss Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and labeled Virginia Woolf’s work as too “floaty” or “airy” -I would have thought that for an airborne creature, ‘floaty’ and ‘airy’ would be desirous?!! (Scout did not agree, saying I had made a sweeping generalisation about his species and should be more open minded). I am now, more than ever, convinced that I will love Virginia Woolf.
Scout was foe, not friend. He turned on me, gearing up to use his sting once I mentioned my love for the espionage-thriller genre. Fortunately for me, H. ever the faithful protector, stepped in and without remorse, whacked the parasite with an effectively lethal shoe. In his last writhing moments, Scout turned, spat a few words of contempt as I lowered my head and whispered ever so gently, ever so soothingly, that Sherlock Holmes is one of the greatest and most fascinating characters ever written, and, by the way, did he realise that he named himself ‘Scout’ after a girl? My triumph secured, Scout’s eyes widened with fear and recognition of the humiliating error! The creature’s body jolted, stiffened and finally slumped, dead. Dead on our kitchen table.
My maddened (and frightening, no doubt) shrieks of victory were dampened by the ominous buzz of a hundred vengeful wasps heading our way. Our trio packed up, left Scout’s body for his comrades, and hauled ass out of our sanctuary, on to another.
So, the moral of this story, Stephen King, is this: wasps are not to be trusted, even if they are named after renowned literary characters.