Greetings Readers & Writers!
Jane Bloomfield: truth is stranger than fiction
is launching into another year of fun facts and frivolous notions, so follow me.
Weirdly, the tail end of 2014
and the fresh nub of 2015 have come with much bite...
The ground heated browning the grass, through which I ambled barefoot to
the washing line with the post Xmas wash and stepped on a bee. Well, actually
the bee stepped on me. On my middle toe. And stung it. What of it you might
ask. Wuss. My foot turned into the ruddy plump hand of a toddler. Dimpled
knuckles. Not quite. But angry.
Two swollen middle digits. Hand and foot. My broken finger still ugly
and arthritic looking. My toe tight and shiny in the heat. Niggly. Enough to
make any nice person a bit snappy. All Itchy& Scratchy.
Thankfully, from prick to end-of-malaise is approximately four point
five days. After which time I painted my reformed toenails OPI Bubblegum and
jetted to Far North Queensland with my first born daughter, now the ready age
of 16.
To the town of Cairns. Home of a large and impressive array of
oversized and venomous bite-ty things. Especially in the heady moist days of
tropical summer; the middle of the rainy season.
I lived in Cairns for a year in the early 90’s as a newlywed. We
hid indoors over summer weekends. Looking out at summer from the cooled fourth
floor safety of our air conditioned apartment. We ventured out for slippery
trips to the supermarket on the vinyl bench seat of Gloria. When the sun
went down we’d venture out to play tennis under floodlights. Dodging fruit bats
and dessertspoon sized black beetles attracted to the lights. While micro sized
insects wee-weed on our damp thighs and caused immediate 50cent sized welts
that itched like a dog.
In Cairns you cannot swim in the sea during all the months with an ‘r’
in them because of heart attack inducing marine stingers. Why was I back in
this crazy town in JanuaRy you might wonder? To catch up with a French
girlfriend of course.
‘We get one sting a day,’ the man dressed in life saving colours, at the
buy-a-beach-umbrella-for-the-princely-sum-of-$30-a-day, on Green Island said.
I donned my thick lycra suit straightaway and felt like Ursula, a Russian
mermaid from a Bond movie off in search of my undersea spy cave. I looked like
a twat and scared all the colourful fish away.
(here I am again, with filters, no laughing, I can hear you)
I was desperate to see a salt water crocodile in its natural habitat
while in Queensland. Supposedly, one called Harry lived in the manmade lagoon
at our resort. I looked for him while three little girls with Shirley temple
curls fed the ducks. Were their parents MAD or just a foolish tourist like myself?
I haven’t ever been bitten by anything big. The ducks didn’t seem worried.
Harry must have been loved-up up stream with the other local cohort named
Sarah. So we went to the zoo to get our wildlife fix. We watched a man in khaki
give a snake demonstration. He had a selection of venomous serpents wrapped in
cotton sacks. He did to those poor snakes everything he was telling the
audience NOT to do. He was annoying the crap out of them tbh. I would have
bitten him if my head had been shimmied around in that metal crook. Like Steve
Irwin he saved the best for last.
Out of your bog standard green wheelie bin came - Mr Python. All four
plus metres of him. Mr Crocodile Dundee Snake charmer put him on the top rail
of his snake circus. Mr P slivered its circumference until his head kissed his
tail.
‘Don’t stand next to his head,’ Mr SC warmed. ‘Pythons like to crush
their prey, but they will bite if provoked.’
Punters disobeyed in brazen fashion. They had their photos taken smiling
with their tongues in, patting Mr P’s tidy head. Daughter and I braved it and touched
the digit width point of his tail. It was cool. We moved on to the petting zoo.
(This koala maybe distantly related to Bob Marley, the girl holding him is not)
On return to NZ, where the creatures are small and brown I took to mowing
everything in site. (never buy yourself a weed-eater if you have OCD
tendencies) on our not-small-enough-holding.
Then bugger me, mid satisfying munch a bumble bee flew out of the pale yellow
flower of a mustard plant and stung me bam. Shot its poisoned dart straight into
my right mammory. I kid you not. Bumble bum on the boob. I flapped my t-shirt.
Examined my bra for the evidence. Its barb. All the while the sting stung. My
breast fleshed reddened. But the best was yet to come. The following night 2
thirds of my titty was red, roaring and stingy. The spot of entry a purpling
bruise. Why me I moaned, dabbing cooling antihistamine gel into myself in the
dead of night and refreshing my wet flannel. (FYI this paragraph is full of lies
and requires the following fact edit: Female bumble bees do not have barbs, they
can sting repeatedly without injuring themselves). Lucky old them.
Enough is enough. You can see why I had to wear that becoming black stinger
suit. I’m a stinger magnet.
By and by, the bumble bee boob booboo subsided as did my fescue depilatory
desires. On Sunday morning I undid a temporary horse fence to allow quick
access for the haymaker’s imminent arrival. On the way back I climbed up a two
and a half metre berm to check how easy it would be to cut back some self-sown
willows crowding two flax bushes AND I very nearly stood on the back of a
POSSOM face down and asleep in a lovely grassy nest. Holy marsupial. In broad
daylight. A pink startled nose looked up at me. I made noises that was not a
woman in the height of passion. I took a step backwards and tripped over, whacking
my head hard against the bank. Mrs Poss ran along the length of my body. But
not on top. She did not scratch my face or body with her long sharp claws. Obvs
nature and I were speaking the same language. That time.
I headed indoors, stopping to collect a watering can I’d left by the
plum trees. A fledgling bird whimpered up at me from the grass. Ask your own
mother for help. I’m over wild things. I did do a quick search for its nest.
Then scarpered.
The next morning I woke with mild whiplash. It was the perfect day for a
ride. While grooming my trusty steed, Star, I noticed the pile of horse covers
in close proximity to my saddle was emitting a deep humming noise. A bumble bee
emerged. You have got to be stinging me. I ran back to the house for fly spray.
Call me a killer and I am. If you’d been stung in your knocker and still bared
the mark, you’d turn all sniper on the good guys too. I pulled the offending
articles onto the grass and doused them. Sure enough a family of BB’s had taken
up residence. Sticky dark yellow sap clumped to horse hair. Women and
children. Hail Mary. Wasps nest too of brittle honeycomb shape clung to canvas
folds. I crushed them under my jodhpur boot. I felt no guilt.
Critters. They’re everywhere. The H has been away for 4 weeks. I’d like
some action. But not this. Maybe Mother Nature has been trying to tell me something.
Like, get ON your arse and write that bloomin novel.
Meanwhile - be careful out there folks.
(you can now swim at Cairns Beaches during the months with an 'R', inside stinger nets)
