OPEN LETTER

My Hornet Died And It Stung

Sometimes the unlikeliest friendships have a story to share.

Photo by v2osk on Unsplash

Hi Karen, it’s me, Harriet the Hornet. Not the one from the infamous children’s picture book by Vance Huxley, written in 2020, but the current modern-day version of 2021. Remember, you chose my name for its alliterative fun.

I saw the look of terror when we were eye to eye peering at each other through the patio glass window. I minded my own business building my nest in your brickwork — you sat with a look of disdain on your face.

I don’t understand what the problem was. After all, you never used your balcony anyway. I scoped it out for weeks, and it was always bare. So please don’t assume that it’s my fault that grilling and tanning brought about curiosity from other insects that forced you indoors.

Don’t you think if anyone should be afraid of anyone, it should be me toward you? Look at our differences in size. I know I’m large for my insect group, but let’s be honest, you tower over me in height and far exceed me in weight. Your manual strength could crush me, so I must bear arms.

My stinger is my only line of defence, but I wasn’t particularly eager to use it. Nature gifted me with it so that I could survive, but only if you frightened me. But we…