This Is No Longer a Game

I am allergic to wasp stings; not enough to send me to my grave, but enough to sometimes wish it did!

Each year, the little scoundrels manage to find some new spot from which to taunt me in our evolving game of hide and seek. The first year, they won! Reaching under the rim of the trash cart, tugging it out to wheel down to the kerb for collection, the little blighters got me. There were only a few of them, but two stings on the end of my right index finger had me swearing and dancing in ways that were not entertaining! My finger swelled to nearly bursting, itching and burning, and stayed that way for almost three weeks. Antihistamines, pain relievers; nothing but patience would make it go away. But I am nothing if not teachable, and so every week, on garbage day, I hesitate and visually check before reaching for the handle.

The second year, the wasps did not go back to my garbage cart (though I still keep checking!) Instead, I found them hiding behind my house. They gave away their hiding spot when their nest became so big that part of it fell down onto the sitting area. Foolishly believing that this was the whole nest, and how fortunate I was not to get stung this year, I determined that the whole area needed a little tidying. Only about a metre behind my house is a very high retaining wall, upon which the neighbour’s fence sits. Grasses and weeds grow along the edge of that fence, as they always do, and hang down over the wall. This must have been where the wasp nest had been. The grass needed to go.

I tried, and the wasps won again. Unfortunately, the wall is much too high for me to reach, and the space between the wall and the eaves of my house is very narrow. Perched precariously atop the highest rung, I reached with my little hand shears to trim the overhang, bit by bit, until I was set upon in a surprise attack. I dropped everything, slid down that ladder like it was some kind of fire station pole, and sheltered behind the safety of my screened doors, nursing the multiple stings on the top of my hand, now swollen to look like a gorilla’s grasp. A little googling and price comparing led me to a local hardware chain where I bought a hedge trimmer on an extension pole. I must have looked like a drunken medieval knight, waving the top heavy trimmer in the air while donned with gloves and a puffy jacket, but not before unloading a whole can of spray into the grass where those suckers were hiding!

Round three is about to begin. I have maintained my vigilant checks under the lip of the garbage receptacles. I have kept watch over the hanging grasses and dutifully keep them trimmed. Yesterday, before leaving the house, I even took a minute to look along the eaves along the front where I had previously seen signs of beginning nests and knocked them away. I wandered to the side and gazed for a moment at the wooden gate. I should paint that, maybe a small mural to make it look like a pretty path winding through trees or something. That could be fun. My attention was taken as a gasp filled my throat. In the line of sight above the gate, tucked inside the window head, was the biggest mother of a nest I have ever seen! How did that get there so fast! I was just out there two weeks ago, clearing weeds, cleaning spider webs and sweeping the path. It wasn’t there then. Every wasp in the whole neighbourhod must have decided to join the game! They are clearly out to get me, but I’m going to take them down!

While out shopping, I bought a large can of Fast Knockdown Wasp Killer with a 5 Metre Jet spray. It’s on!