That's Just Swell

Regular readers of my blog will know how petrified I am of all the (many, many) venomous, man-eating creatures that this great country is home to. What you might not know is that this fear stems from the fact that if there is something in the vicinity that will bite/sting/claw/crush, it will bite/sting/claw/crush me. On every holiday I have ever been on, I have been injured in some way, usually by a nasty winged creature. I thought that I had been spared on our honeymoon, that it was God’s way of rewarding me for no longer living in sin. Thirteen wonderfully relaxing, indulgent and incident-free days went by in our luxurious beach-side resort in Mauritius. But God clearly hadn’t forgiven me as I was stung by a monster bee on our last day. It landed on my back. I thought it was a fly. I swatted it. It stung me. And, being a bee, it left its stinger in me. The (very new) Husband was ordered to run back to our room and fetch the first aid kit. I of course had insisted we walk quite a way down the beach to find the best spot – the best bit of sand, best bit of sea, best sun lounger, least number of people – so he had to run quite a way there and back. I think at this point he was probably wondering what he’d got himself into. I, meanwhile, lay whimpering face down on the sun lounger because it really, really hurt. Eventually he returned, armed with tweezers, bite cream and, most important of all, antihistamine tablets. Because, ironically, not only am I the most likely target for stingers and biters, I also react badly and swell up. It’s like they know, like they deliberately pick the human who will be most badly affected.


I suppose I should have been thankful that it chose the last day of the holiday to sting me. On holiday in Spain once, I was stung on the leg by a wasp on the first day and had to spend the rest of the fortnight with the affected area covered. This resulted in some rather interesting sunbathing techniques to keep that part of the leg in the shade but as much of the rest of me in the sun as possible. The lengths I will go to for a tan. At least I had no plans for the holiday but to lie and read and do as little as possible. Part way through the Tour of Britain, I was stung by a wasp right on my ankle. Not only did I have a very full and active itinerary, but the vicious, spiteful wasp chose to sting me four days before The Best Friend’s wedding. I took antihistamine immediately, put my foot up as soon as we were home and was grateful to note before I turned out the light that night that the swelling was minimal.

I woke the next morning with a heavy feeling foot. Assuming it was pins and needles, I attempted to shake it but struggled even to lift it. Whipping back the duvet, I saw with horror that my ankle had ballooned. I had a fat person’s ankle with rolls. Actual rolls. It was huge. Over the next couple of days, despite packing it with ice and resting it as often as I could, it merely got bigger and turned an angry reddish/purplish colour. It would seem that, bar your face (a fate which could so nearly have befallen me as I am pretty sure I batted the wasp off my chin whereupon it landed on my ankle), your ankle is the worst place to get stung as it is in constant use. All that walking was causing fluid to build up and settle in my foot/ankle/lower leg, giving me the fat person look or, as The Husband referred to me throughout that period, ‘Club Foot’. This was clearly not good. I was due to be Maid of Honour in a matter of days. I had to be able to walk, I had to be able to fit into my heels, I had to be able to walk in my heels. The swelling had not gone down much by the big day but, luckily, I had shoes with adjustable straps and I just had to remember to pop the offending club foot behind me whenever the photographer loomed. And, as soon as the dinner ended, I kicked off my heels and threw on a pair of flat sandals.

Anyway, I have gone a bit off-point here but the crux is this – I am frighteningly long-overdue a bite/sting/claw/crush in Karratha. The difference is that in Australia a fat person’s ankle would be the least of my worries. Here, in the country that is home to many of the world’s most painful, poisonous and deadly creatures, I could be in real trouble. And that is why I am so petrified of anything that moves.