Beware of the Wildlife

There are some injustices that you never get over. For me, it happened when I was about seven.

It was the beginning of the school holidays and I had been out all day. The days were long and dry. The sun shined but it wasn’t too hot. It was the perfect weather for riding your bike up and down the road, joining a skipping challenge with the neighbours or just enjoying the wildlife. I remember the sounds. The birds had just stopped being manic. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard it but there is a day, towards the end of July when the birds just relax. I guess their babies have left home and they don’t have to do all that sex stuff until next year.

That year I was obsessed with counting the spots on ladybirds. When we grow up we stop noticing the little things but when you are seven the realisation that even creatures as small as ladybirds are unique is quite something. I had a notebook and was keeping count of all the different ladybirds I saw. My favourites were the two spotted ladybirds, who  would whisper gentle things into the breeze. The yellow ladybirds, always with 22 spots were much louder. They shouted into the air, “Wheee!” they said as they launched themselves towards the runner beans. Our beans were always covered in black fly, so I understand why they were so excited but still, there was no need for all that noise. If only they were more dignified, like the two-spots.

The most frequent visitor, though, was the seven spotted ladybird. My seven-spot page had the most tally marks. Normally, these ladybirds were ok. Not as gentle as the two-spots but usually happy enough. However, on this day a strange thing happened.

Seven spot

A seven spot landed on my hand. It sat there for a few moments and I listened.
“Oh, you poor thing,” I said to it, “Have you flown a very long way? You must be very tired.”
Then it bit me!
I know!
It bit me!
I couldn’t believe it. I rushed inside, crying real tears of pain.
When I calmed down my mum tried to find out what had happened.
“A..a....a....l....l...lady....a ladybird.....a... a...ladybird bit me!” I said between sobs, holding my hand and pointing to the little red itchy bump that was evidence.
She laughed. Proper guffawing belly laughs.
She laughed so much that tears rolled down her cheeks.
When my Dad got in, she told him and he laughed too.
“Don’t be silly,” they both said, “ladybirds don’t bite.”

I have never quite recovered from that moment. Even when my mum apologised towards the end of the summer. It was on the news that there had been a plague of seven spotted ladybirds, brought in by new cereal crops and with the dry summer some had started to bite people.

I was reminded of this story because yesterday I was walking down the path towards Morrison’s and a little green bug landed on my hand.
“Hello!” I said to it, “How are you? What are you? You poor thing, have you flown a very long way? you must be very tired.”
Then it bit me.
“Not again,” I thought but this time I decided not to tell anyone and I was very brave for my age and didn’t cry at all.

Green bug bite