The boy who cried wasp

Turns out, the euros have friends. Many of them. The department of Agriculture has been as forthcoming as it can manage (one fella doing the whole city, trying to catch them in plastic cups) but considering we're all still alive so far, I'm not so worried.
I had a moment or two of fright when Boogie came up to me pleased as punch, holding a writhing live wasp between his index finger and thumb, grinning ear to ear, squealing "Mummy, lookit bug!" How he managed to catch a live wasp like that I'll never know. Look out Mr Miyagi. I myself only managed a horrified gurgle before stuttering to "put it down, it's a bitey bug!"
I'm too late! He flicks it away, bursts into tears and stuffs his suddenly dewasped fingers in his mouth. Whisked to the kitchen, pegs and washing falling from me like dust behind the RoadRunner, he's dumped on the bench and thoroughly inspected. Through the wailing and tears he hears my demands to know where he's bit, producing a tear-and-slime covered finger trembling with apparent horror. Whatever am I to do? Icepacks right? Surely. Although all the icepacks appear to be in the sandpit (along with everything else we value). Peas? Nope, ate them. A steak? Chips? Iceypoles! Just made for freezing little fingers till they feel like they'll drop off. The moment I whip the top off and shove it into his damaged paw he bursts out laughing. Tears, snot, trembling and laughter! The utter little bugger! If I had a stinger, I'd sting him my bloody self. I fell so damn hard for it!

It's bloody hard to appreciate signs of intelligence when they're used to screw with you.

Sadly they also get taken advantage of when only a few hours later you're telling him, for the twentieth or so time, that if he looks into the popcorn maker while it's going the popcorn will burn him. He cries, he shows you that same hand that caused all the trouble earlier. He pours water from his bottle all over it (learnt from an experience with the iron that will remain unmentioned). Mummy remains firm as the whimpers subside, and dances on the inside, convinced that Boogie recognises that I'll not be falling for any funny shenanigans. Gloats even. Mummy is in fact, setting herself up nicely for when the 'imaginary' burn turns into a great fat blister nearly as wide as the finger it's on.

Now. If you'll excuse me... I'll be restocking the first aid kit.