We were celebrating the birthday of my niece. Matilda was turning seven and the family had gathered at the farm to mark the occasion. Given that this was likely to be the last of the nice weather, we decided to eat outdoors. Under the sailcloth near the barbeque were a number of tables loaded with all manner of food. But just as we prepared to swarm around lunch, a large number of European wasps got in first. Within seconds, they were everywhere. I blame social media.
We were celebrating the birthday of my niece. Matilda was turning seven and the family had gathered at the farm to mark the occasion. Given that this was likely to be the last of the nice weather, we decided to eat outdoors. Under the sailcloth near the barbeque were a number of tables loaded with all manner of food. But just as we prepared to swarm around lunch, a large number of European wasps got in first. Within seconds, they were everywhere. I blame social media.
I assume that the insects had heard about Matilda’s birthday through facebook and decided to turn up en masse and uninvited. However, we take a strict approach to gatecrashers and my father immediately sprang into action. Rather than retreat, he decided to wage war against the interlopers, dispatching one of grandkids to go and fetch the Glad Wrap. But whilst covering the food in plastic prevented direct access, it did little to deter the wasps who continued to gather in ever-larger numbers, presumably with a view of using a battering ram to get through the cling wrap veneer. But my father refused to concede defeat.
In this world, there are two types of families. There are those for whom the fly swat is their weapon of choice, to send various creepy crawlies from this world into the next. These people may well be Amish and avoid buttons. We, however, are people of science and use fly spray. Clutching twin cans of Mortein like a gunfighter, our father began spraying the wasps without mercy. Given that they were in the midst of trying to break through the protective layer of Glad Wrap, this meant unleashing a torrent of insecticide on the various serving dishes containing lunch. Although the sun was shining, as it so often does in Tyabb, the wind was blowing also and a steady stream of spray soon began to make my brothers and sisters feel a little unsteady. It was, of course, not the first time I’d seen such mayhem.
When we were kids, insect spray was practically a condiment, right up there with mayonnaise and mustard. At the slightest rattle of a blowfly, my father would be off to fetch the can. Without exception, the insect would be loitering around the dinner table as that’s where all the interesting stuff was. Like a sniper, he would stand, can poised, trying to make visual contact. Once he did, my father would issue a general warning to cover our food before letting loose. You could see the particles of spray drifting down through the atmosphere towards your plate and glass. Attempts to cover our food were eventually abandoned as we developed a taste for it. Indeed, I can barely bring myself to eat anything without the tang of chemicals and pine needles I knew and loved as a child.
In some respects, the fly spray was the least of our worries. Other family favourites included being invited to eat without a plate. Usually, this was a biscuit or some other snack rather than a full meal. The offer of going sans plate was an attempt at a kind of laissez faire informality that was ordinarily beyond us as the idea of eating anything without a plate was generally considered a notch below anarchy. But there was always a catch. Whilst we were invited to throw caution to the wind, we could not do the same with our crumbs and were forced to eat standing over the sink. Whilst this severely detracted from the devil may care thrill of going ‘plateless’, we were too in awe of the occasion to complain. I may whinge about it now, but to this day I find myself compelled to stand, leaning like Pisa, over the sink as I eat a piece of toast. It’s a sad state of affairs.
But of all the things that were a feature of our childhood, none has left a more indelible mark than this: the lickspittle grime removal method. It’s a substantial irony in that the whole point of the lickspittle method was to remove otherwise indelible marks from your face. For those unfamiliar with it, the lickspittle method involved a parent spitting into a handkerchief (or similar), then using the now moistened rag to wipe your face. As an adult and with the benefit of hindsight, this sounds like one of the most disgusting things you could possibly do to another human being, a step short of water boarding but ten times worse than a wet willy.
Today’s kids would, no doubt, be slack-jawed in shock at the fact that such things ever occurred. These days, parents are loaded up with all kinds of moistened wipes that have made the art of projecting your saliva into an ancient snot rag largely a thing of the past. But as disgusting as it was, it taught you a lot about life. It also taught you to never trust a handkerchief.
As the wasps swarmed around us and Mortein gushed into the atmosphere, I instinctively fell down and began spinning in a circle. As the haze of the spray drifted off into the breeze, I looked up to see all the members of my family gazing down in shock. I had reacted in haste. As I got to my feet, I felt a deep sense of embarrassment. In fact, you might say that there was egg all over my face. As I stood, glowing with shame, my father reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief before quickly spitting in it and saying, ‘Come here.’