It's long been known that I don't care for cars, growing beards and fighting (all things that confirm your masculinity,) but for some there may still have been a lingering thought that I could turn the whole thing around and prove all the doubters wrong. Today that thought was banished.
As I staggered out of bed, thinking "Oh no I still need to get my Mum something for tomorrow," and "Oh no I'm really hungover, getting Mum something for tomorrow might be a challenge," I at least had the prospect of a nice shower to look forward to. I imagine I stank of a mixture of vodka and ill advised Chicken Cottage, so a shower was definitely required. I managed to make my way past the jungle of shoes and bags that seem to have amassed on my floor and into the bathroom. Only to discover, there on the wall in front of my Friday night ridden eyes, was a massive, grinning (probably) wasp. I have a particular hatred for wasps. Spiders I can handle, because spiders aren't pure evil. You can put a spider in a glass and let it on it's merry way to live a life of freedom and joy outside the confines of your abode. You try that with a wasp and it's been proven you can lose a hand. It sat there, a matter of inches away from my hand, mocking me that something a millionth the size of me could cause such worry in my mind.
I shut the bathroom door and went back into my room. This was a problem. In my still slightly inebriated state, taking on the wasp may prove difficult. Had I still been quite drunk I would of karate chopped it or something. Like that advert says, you feel indestructible when you've had a few, and if that means you can climb scaffolding with confidence I'm sure a little wasp problem would be easy. However I wasn't quite drunk. If anything I was just tired and smelt like I was quite drunk, and that doesn't have the same affect on one's feeling of power. I lay on my bed for a few moments, contemplating the possibility of simply never showering again and leaving the bathroom to become the wasp's house. We would live around it and pretend it wasn't there, like a pervy uncle at Christmas. That plan had a downside though. Well, a few downsides, really. I couldn't go through with it.
All this time I had the idea in my head that if I was a dad right now I'd be doing my family a massive injustice. Dads are meant to be the ones who sort out such issues, and if my child had come to me that morning and said, "Daddy there's a wasp in the bathroom," my response would not have been the manly, bold reaction he/ she would have been hoping for.
"Right child. We shall now avoid the bathroom forever. Ok? You understand? NEVER GO IN THE BATHROOM AGAIN. Wasps are lethal. In fact if I were you I'd just avoid the entire upstairs of the house completely, in case it finds a way out."
Fortunately for me I'm not yet a dad. I'd like to be one day, but before that time it seems I'll have to butch up a bit.
"Stop fannying about with your hair, Ash. It doesn't matter what shoes you wear to sort the wasp out, stop putting it off. Why are you bothered about how you look when, until you have a shower, you will continue to stink like a tramp who's spent the night sleeping in a bath of vodka and chicken burgers?"
I plucked up some courage and, after two or three approaches, I opened the bathroom door. My heart beat was going nuts, my brain was full of possible futures in which the wasp attacked me and I became half wasp, never being able to live a normal life because of the fear I cast in those around me. This future seems unlikely, now, but at the time it was very realistic. Shoe in hand, balls in mouth, I charged. The wasp had been smart and hidden, so my initial charge just ended up with me stood in the bathroom with a shoe above my head. But after a bit of a browse I saw the soon to be victim of my trainer on the floor. It buzzed a little bit as if to remind me of it's prowess in the insect world. I then swore at it like it was a person who could understand such idle threats, but it did make me feel a bit less like a little girl, and in a frenzied swing of trainer fury the wasp was dead, nothing more than a yellow and black blotch on the tiled floor of it's former haven.
I vacuumed it up, had a shower, apologised to my imaginary child about how terrible a father I am and got on with the rest of my life.
Still not got anything for my mum.
But it's been a traumatic morning, I need a rest before I venture out.