Friday, 4 December 2009


I once found a dying wasp on my windowsill. Far away from the terror inspired over childhood summers, it was sad and slow and pitiful. The poor wasp wasn't ready for winter; no more ice cream or ripe fallen fruit, no more sunshine and nothing to eat. In sympathy, I gave it a drop of honey, a last supper, and left it to die with sugar on its lips. When I came back, the honey had all gone. The wasp bowed courteously and flexed its wings. I opened the window as wide as my mouth and watched it fly away into the wind.

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