‘Why won’t they stop? Why won’t they just leave me alone? Why do they have a personal vendetta against me?’
These questions cycled through my head as I sat on the picnic blanket in a park just outside Tønder, Denmark. My wife sat across from me, and she knew immediately that I was not myself, and why.
“Just ignore them,” she said to me as she took an apple from the basket.
“You know that’s hard for me to do.”
“Just finish your sandwich.”
“I can’t,” I replied as I put the sandwich back on the plate for what seemed like the 100th time in the last two minutes. Within a second the sandwich was violated from the air. Two wasps landed on the brown crust and meandered aimlessly across the pillowy bread that I should have already eaten. “Well, that’s that ruined.”
“Ah it’s your own fault,” my wife said as she waved another wasp from her airspace.
My hesitancy to share the airspace with the wasps was merited. Only three weeks ago, a Dutch compatriot of these Danish wasps had deemed me to be a threat to their very existence. A sneak attack from behind led to a sting on my upper left arm. A sting which resulted in a week of uncomfortable red swelling, incessant itching, and a Popeye-like physique.
I looked at my sandwich on my plate. Turkey and cheddar cheese, with a little brown sauce. To some a strange combination, but to me it was heaven. I so wanted to take a bite, but the wasps continued to walk across the brown bread in search of their preferred snack. Eating was a non-runner for me.
Almost in unison the wasps reached the other side of the sandwich and were attracted to a sliver of turkey hanging beyond the cut of the sandwich. They took some swift bites of the turkey and flew off.
“They’re gone now. You can eat it now,” my wife said with obvious impatience about my inability to live in harmony with the wasps.
I picked up the sandwich and looked at the side that the wasps had used as a path towards the sliver of turkey. I looked at my wife who had just picked up a magazine with Carrie Khan on the cover and started reading it.
I was still worried by the possible return of the wasps. “What if they come back?” I asked.
My wife dropped the magazine ever so slightly so she could see me over the top of it. “Leave a piece of the sandwich over there,” she said as she pointed at the other side of the blanket. “If they come back, they’ll eat that.”
“You sure?”
“Yes! Jaysus, you won’t be stung again!”
“Fine.”
I tore the reminder of the turkey sliver from the sandwich and placed it on the other side of the blanket, at arm’s length away from me.
I looked at the sandwich again, and then took a bite. It was so tasty, the spicy brown sauce really made it pop. Gone were my concerns about the wasps ever coming back. Of course, they did though.
Just as I was halfway through the sandwich the wasps reappeared. But this time they ignored me, they ignored my wife, the ignored the uneaten half of my sandwich, they even ignored the Carrie Khan magazine cover. They went right for the turkey sliver on the other side of the blanket.
My wife looked over as I was following every movement of the wasps. “See I told you.”
“Yes, you were right.”
“Now, can you finish the sandwich? The Danes must think you’re the slowest eater in history!”
I scanned the park – there was nobody around. “What Danes?”
“All of the Danes!” she retorted. “Come on – finish up will you! I checked the traffic a few minutes ago, it’s going to take us ages to get to Legoland.”
I ate the final part of the sandwich in two swift bites and then washed it down with some water from the bottle in front of me.
“Okay, all done!”
“About time, let’s get going,” my wife replied.
“Sorry about the wasp thing. You know I’m no fun if I get stung.”
“I know, I know,” she said while nodding and putting the plates in the picnic basket.
“I was just building the tension for the journey.”
“Was that a Lego joke?” she asked turning to look at me.
I smiled and winked back.
She glared at me with a smile. “It sucked.”
“Just trying to lighten the mood.”
As we packed the last of the picnic kit, two wasps landed on a nearby bush. Were they the same wasps that violated my turkey-sandwich? I couldn’t be sure. But as I walked away and towards the car with the picnic basket, they didn’t move. I guess they dropped by to say goodbye and thanks for the food.
I stopped and turned to the wasps in the bush. “You’re welcome wasps. See you later.”
“Who are you talking to?” my wife asked from beside the car.
“Nobody, dear. Just the wasps.”
© 2025 Barry W. Fitzgerald