Bee Stings and Transvestites

First of all, I would like to say that Himself is not a transvestite. Those of you that know him in the flesh will doubtless agree with me. But I bring this up because, according to Richard Madeley’s blog this morning, transvestites are three times more likely to be stung by bees than men who don’t dress in women’s clothing.

Himself was stung, helping a friend in her garden on Tuesday. The sting didn’t make much impact at the time, but 24 hours later, he started complaining that his foot hurt. By lunchtime yesterday, when I inspected it, his ankle had swollen to massive proportions and was the bright red of a pillarbox. The sting itself, lurking in amongst this bulbous tissue, was a livid purple. I managed not to scream or throw up and unearthed some antihistamine tablets. Then I picked up the phone and, ignoring Himself’s pleas, rang our surgery and got an appointment for that afternoon.

The doctor checked him over and offered him a prescription for antibotics which he declined, of course, so the doc said to come back if it was no better. This morning, thankfully, the ankle is now merely twice its normal size and a ruddy, bruised colour rather than purpley grotesque and of amputation proportions. But Richard’s post got me thinking.

What does Himself really do up at the workshop? Those Sundays when he says he’s going to jazz, is that what he really does? When he was helping this friend the other day, did he sneak into her bedroom and gaze at her clothes? Did he disappear into her wardrobe and emerge in a black slinky number? Grab the feather boa and drape it round his hunky shoulders? Did he dabble with her lippy or flirt with her mascara?

I doubt it, if only because he is well over six foot, sixteen stone. But you never know. Look at Danny La Rue…