Out damn wasp

“Can we stop at home and get some toys?” Asked Tom as we drove away from Ryde Pier Head.
“No. We’re going to Shanklin beach first,” Said Sophie.
“DID YOU BRING THE WASP RAQUET?” Squealed Tom.
“Yes,” Said Sophie.

This calmed Tom for a bit. Well, until we started singing various versions of London Bridge is Falling Down with new, not always sensible, lyrics.

Tom is petrified of wasps. He’s never been bitten by one so I’m not sure why. Okay, they buzz around your food and drink and can be a bit annoying but as long as you don’t hassle them, they tend to just mind their own business. Possibly Tom’s fear has been imprinted by his mother’s fear.

Both of them do the Wasp Avoidance Dance with great skill. They can be sitting quite happy and composed, sipping apple juice or tea one moment and then, suddenly, they are up and side stepping all over the place. If you’re not quick, you lose sight of them very quickly.

Naturally, the wasps enjoy this fevered leaping about and just want to join in. They sniff around humans looking for someone to dance with. They quite like the Hand Dodge game as well but the big one for wasps, is the dance.

And this is where the wasp racquet comes in. It’s like a small tennis racquet made from yellow plastic (all the better to attract the wasps, I assume) with a little black button on the shaft. The button, once pressed, electrifies the strings, making it deadly. I’ve not seen it actually used so can’t verify the effectiveness but it seems to me that a well aimed swipe with full charge would be similar to a Novak Djokovic serve. The wasp being the ball.

The wasp dance and the racquet were just one part of a very entertaining day on the Isle of Wight, the day that Bob met Sophie and Tom. I should mention that Sophie was a bit afraid of meeting Bob who, Mirinda had described as a rabbit shooting, pig killing bushie with a big gun. Actually meeting him, dispelled these rumours…a bit.

The ferry ride was lovely and, regardless of the late train, waiting for us at Portsmouth. It was a smooth and delightful crossing (Bob and I spent it on the sun deck with the tourist class).

At Ryde we then proceeded to squash into Sophie’s car.

Sophie and Tom’s place in Shanklin is not quite big enough for all their stuff so the car serves as a spare room (bikes in the back, toys on the floor, occasional sweets) and, although advertised as a five seater, has barely room for four. Even so, Tom, Bob and I managed to squeeze into the back.

Actually, Tom was fine. He’s still in a booster seat. Bob and I, on the other hand, shared a space equivalent to a single seat in the economy class of a 450 South West Train. Fortunately the Isle of Wight isn’t very big so breathing wasn’t that necessary. Besides, we had Tom’s singing to entertain us.

It was interesting getting Bob’s take on Tom’s vocal prowess. The loudest child he’d ever heard, probably sums it up. A little later, as I was walking with Tom near Ventnor we were discussing secrets. I told him, very quietly, that I had a secret pickle. He thought this was hilarious and shouted, at the top of his mighty lungs:

“HEY WORLD! GARY HAS A SECRET PICKLE!“

I’m fairly certain the whole world heard him. I told him it wasn’t a secret any more. He thought this was hilarious.

Something we all found hilarious were the Morris sides having a bit of a dance off at Shanklin beach. Unusually, there were quite a few groups of female Morris dancers with their bells and sticks and bearded musicians. It was a perfect bit of English eccentricity and Bob loved it.

We spent quite a while watching and listening to them dancing away. This was punctuated with Sophie and Tom running away from wasps, which was almost as entertaining as the Morris dancers.

My favourite Morris troupe were the clog dancers and their stripy socks.

Freeing ourselves from the threat of more wasp attacks, we drove to Sophie’s place for a delightful (and huge) lunch of pizza, pasta and delicious cake before heading off for Ventnor. When visiting Ventnor, we often go for a long walk to a small cafe, hidden at the end of a series of steep steps and paths. Sophie decided we weren’t going to do the long walk this visit as time was running a bit short for our return ferry ride. So we only walked about 150 miles before heading back to the car and, eventually, Ryde.

The trip back was pretty uneventful. Well, until we reached Petersfield when four young lads joined our carriage. They were student types, deep in a serious conversation about Jewish Society and how it relates to the Talmud. I would have enjoyed listening to their discourse if it hadn’t been for their food.

I don’t know what they were eating (it looked normal enough) but they clearly had no sense of smell. We were in a quiet carriage but the stench of their food was enough to disquiet everyone else. It was foul and all pervading. Mirinda described it as scouring the nerves in her nose. It took quite a while for the smell to vanish even after we left the train and jumped into the car. I think a lot of the smell clung to our clothes in an effort to escape from itself. We felt very sorry for the people left at the epicentre, in the carriage.

Anyway, evil odour aside, it was a lovely day.