Bee.
One beautiful morning last year I was standing at Surbiton Station waiting for my train to work. The sun was shining and it was lovely and warm - I was full of the joys of spring. As I waited for my train, I noticed a bee of absolutely mammoth proportions (or at least it seemed tennis ball sized) flying recklessly about. It began to circle me in a menacing manner and being the big big wuss that I am, I flung my handbag on the floor and ran about 50 yards up the platform (as I did this I saw people laughing). The bee was in pursuit and as I circled back and picked up my bag, the bee was flying round my head and occasionally brushing my ear and cheek with its evil furry body. I had attracted an audience of mildly curious and bemused commuters by this point so I tried to stand still and take some deep breaths. But the bastard thing wouldn’t leave me alone. So. This is where I start to cry. Not a small, discreet sniff - a full on, shoulder shaking sob with tears and arm flapping. At this point, the platform attendant (to whom I am eternally grateful) came over, shoed the evil bee away, waited with me and saw me safely on to the train. Where I cried most of the way to Fulham. When I got into the office I was obviously tear stained. When asked ‘why?’ the only answer that could come from my mouth was ‘I WAS ATTACKED!!’ When I added ‘by a bee’ I realised I could never again command my colleagues’ respect.
(rumandcoke, Thu 2 Jun 2005, 11:06, Reply)