A bee stung me. On my arse.

Yesterday, a bee stung me, on my arse. More accurately, I sat on a bee and it stung me. Of all the grass in the 395 acres of Regents Park, after 25 minutes of finding just the right spot in the shade for an afternoon unwind, I sit down on a fucking bumble bee. Naturally the bee FREAKED OUT when it saw my gigantic backside coming at it, certain to crush its exoskeleton instantly. The doomed bee stung me through my maxi dress rendering my right bum cheek sore, numb and significantly bigger than my left bum cheek.

That is pretty unlucky on its own, but it’s made worse by the fact that earlier that day I had been admiring a bee hive elsewhere (in total safety behind glass) and was dribbling on about how much I love them.




5 thoughts on “A bee stung me. On my arse.

  1. Oh my God. I’m a little late to the party, but the looks of it. But I’m glad I finally made it. I’ve had a marathon session this afternoon reading your unfortunate (though humorous) encounters. I’m wiping tears from my eyes and receiving strange looks from my office colleagues.

    Bless you Carla, and keep up the good work.

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