Let me clarify though- I only like bees, wasps on the other hand I would like removed from existence. They annoy me so much. So very very much.

There used to be a tree in our garden which was just like every other tree.

A good tree.

A nice tree.

One day the tree became ill.

Some kind of parasite had infested the tree.

Everything we attempted to try and help the tree fight off the invader just didn’t work: the nodule wasn’t going anywhere, and it was slowly killing the tree.

Then everything got worse.

In its attack on the tree, the parasite left the poor tree with large open wounds which began to leak sap everywhere, making the tree’s zombification even more horrific.

Then the wasps descended.

Turns out wasps love tree sap, and soon enough the tree was not only zombified, but also covered in vampire wasps which were feasting on its tree sap.

(I hate wasps so much I drew them without eyes)

With the number of wasps attracted to the dying tree, going into the garden to do anything became impossible.

To step outside meant the risk of being stung by the wasps. This did not sit well with me.

A good tree infested and dying?

Scum wasps feeding on its misery?

Being afraid to leave my own house?

Something had to be done: nobody puts Benjamin in the corner.

Those wasps were going down, but first I had to prepare myself for the task at hand.

I grabbed a jumper that was lying around, two cans of bug spray and a fly-swatter: I was ready.

Those wasps were going down.

I charged out of the back door, screaming and spraying insect killer around me in a protective cloud whilst swatting the air around me like a boy possessed.

I smashed wasps out of mid-air, fighting my way to the infested tree, which I also sprayed liberally. I was also singing “Eye of The Tiger”.

After many minutes, the air was free of wasps and the tree was too.

There remained only one more thing to do:

I still think of you tree.

You were a good tree.

A nice tree.

Truth is, the inside of my brain is so full of random rubbish, I actually spend most of my conscious existence sifting through the mess that is my thinking process.

This is why I may often be staring off into space or be making no sense.

This is no new development. Since I hit the toddler stage, I’ve been semi-insane with dreams and fancies pouring out both ears, and as a result I have frequently blurred the line between imagination and reality.

Perhaps the best example of this would be the day my Nan came round to play one summer. It was an ordinary day. It was sunny. I was six or so, and so you would assume, a completely harmless little lad.

My poor Nan.

She didn’t stand a chance.

As soon as I heard the words “Play” and “Nan” my tiny little mind went into imagination overdrive.

Next thing my Nan knows- we are at the bottom of the garden in front of the shed. I like to imagine at this point a feeling of unease stirred somewhere within my Nan, a feeling she dismissed instantly- after all, I was only her six-year-old grandson.

What could possibly go wrong?

How could she say no to that little adorable face of mine? My shining eyes filled with wonder and dreams?

No-one could.

My Nan, impressed by my imagination and creativity, foolishly agreed to test out my time machine.

“So how does it work Ben?”

“You get in and you go to the future!”

I believe my voice actually trembled with excitement at the prospect. My tiny fists clenched in emotion.

“Are there any spiders in the shed? I really don’t like spiders, Ben.”

“It’s not a shed Nan, it’s a time machine. No spiders in time machines.”

Nan hesitated. That rumble of unease resurfaced: was it really a good idea?

She looked into the darkness of the time machine and shivered.

My hopeful face stared up at her. Nan made a decision.

“Okay Ben. Show me how it works.”

Taking a deep breath, Nan stepped into the machine. Nan had put her faith in me, trusted me not to put her into a situation she would not enjoy.

Nan believed in me.

This went on for  a while. I had a great time. Nan did keep yelling to be let out, but how could I do that?

She was in the middle of her journey through time.

Eventually the journey was complete. I unbolted and opened the door.

So sorry, Nan.

There, I said it. Turtles can live forever.

They reach a certain point and then they stop aging. They stop aging.

THEY STOP AGING.

The only reason we aren’t swimming in an odd green sea of dancing turtles is because disease or some predator normally take them out eventually.

But still- turtles can live forever.

I have a habit of ranting this at people when I first meet them. A typical conversation goes like this:

Me: “So did you know Turtles can live forever?”

Them: “Sorry?”

Me: “Turtles. They live forever. They literally do not age.”

Them: “Oh… that’s nice.”

Me: “They could live forever. Turtles are their own fountain of eternal life.”

Them: “That’s good. Good for them.”

Me:”But they live forever! Isn’t that amazing?”

Them:”I suppose.”

I’m pretty sure the reason I’m so obsessed with the fact TURTLES LIVE FOREVER is because I’m so preoccupied with finding a way to ensure that I, too, will LIVE FOREVER LIKE TURTLES.

Perhaps it isn’t a genetic trait or a product of evolution, perhaps they just know something we don’t. Has anyone asked?

Well perhaps not. Maybe immortality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Would we still be human if there was no limit to our existence? Would life lose all meaning and excitement if there were no end to our days? Would we want to live at all? Perhaps this is the real reason we aren’t swimming in turtles.

Turtle immortality is a heavy burden indeed.

I am still jealous of turtles though. So what if they are slow, relatively dim and don’t do all that much in life?

I am pretty similar, maybe I’ll live forever as well…

We can only hope, my friends. We can only hope.

“You see Boy, this bucket of slime will grow into frogs.”

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

I watched that bucket like a hawk for weeks, noting each and every little change with growing excitement. It was more than just a scummy pail filled with slime: it was paradise.

My mum was less impressed with the spawn.

“This is going to go wrong. Something bad will happen.”

The men of the house ignored her. My father and I shared knowing winks and nudges whenever Mum brought up the fact that she hated the frogspawn; how we smirked at her distress! Silly Mum; why wouldn’t anyone not want a live frog colony growing by the back door?

When I saw my first tadpole swimming around in that bucket, I reached an emotional plateau hitherto unknown to myself.

I was flying, walking on air; my slime had mutated.

Soon I had two hundred or so tadpoles swimming around in my bucket: a swirling vortex of gungy slimy wonder. I watched them swim for hours- watching something growing from essentially nothing was wonderful. They were my babies and they were awesome.

Feeling that my children needed a little more room to continue grossing my mum out, me and Dad upgraded them from the bucket to the wheelbarrow. I think I may have actually cried from the happiness I imagined the tadpoles must’ve felt moving into their new home.

Mum was also happy: the monsters were at least halfway down the garden now, which was more acceptable.

They were happy times we had, me and my tadpoles. I gave them all names, all of them “Bob”, seeing as I couldn’t tell them apart. Oh the games we played in those wonderful days!

I thought those days would last forever. Oh how wrong I was. So wrong.

As I gazed deep into the many faces of Bob one day, I leant on the side of the barrow, eager to see even closer into Bob’s eyes. Something shifted.

It was the tadpole apocalypse.

The barrow had fallen on to its side and there were tadpoles flopping around in the grass everywhere. It was my first taste of the horrors that this world holds. My death-yodel had brought my parents running, to find me on my knees weeping surrounded by tadpoles.

To his credit, my father didn’t even double-take and moved immediately into action.

“Spoons. We need spoons.”

He ran to the kitchen and returned with two teaspoons. Lowering himself to my eye level, he looked deep into my tear-stained eyes and said:

“We can save them. We can save them, Boy.”

Hope fluttered in my tiny chest.

“We can?”

Me and Dad got to it, scooping up the tadpoles and dropping them into their original bucket with our saviour spoons, working against time to save them from suffocation.

Years later, whilst watching Saving Private Ryan, I would feel a curious affinity with the combat medics, as I too had seen the true face of death.

Out of the two hundred tadpoles, we saved about sixty of the poor things, the rest fell silent, their freedom coming at a high price.

I still see Bob’s face in my dreams.

This anecdote has a happy end however, as most of the sixty tadpoles all became tiny frogs which hopped away to live full and froggy lives.

They also returned to our garden every year, seeking the barrow of old and attempting to create new spawn of their own, driving my poor Mum insane.

R.I.P Bob, you will always be in my heart xx

The spider must have known this; it must have sensed my disconnect from reality, known that I had left myself open to attack. With a little smug grin on its spidery face, the bastard dropped down onto my face.

I promptly flung myself from the bed, crashing into the chest of drawers and smashing up my face, howling and crying and hopelessly trapped in my duvet.

Here’s how I felt, in a handy before and after format:

After that day I haven’t exactly been their biggest fan.

Last night, I stumbled across two massive ones in the bathroom, and I wasn’t surprised in the least to see them actually turn around, note my presence, and then go back to their poker game. It’s bad enough that the house is infested, but clandestine spider poker? In my bathroom? Too far you bastards. Too bloody far.

After I had wiped them out with the use of a shoe and some spray, I sat down, softly choking in the thick clouds of poison mist; wondering whether there was a better way: some circumstance in which spiders and myself could live in peace.

My conclusion was that spiders should be granted the ability to talk.

My reasoning goes like this: if spiders could talk, I’d be able to spot a spider and just tell him “Mate, don’t drop on my head, just stay in that corner, yeah?”

The spider would then be able to reply “No problem mate, just having a nap”.

Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Suddenly, spiders wouldn’t be so creepy anymore, they’d be awesome.

“Hey spider, you mind staying out of sight when I’m around? You creep me out a little, that’s all.”

“Sure dude, no worries, just going to chill out and have me some flies.”

Truly a perfect world.

The problem with this particular fantasy of mine however, is that I fail to take into account that the spiders won’t all be friendly surfer types: they’d more likely be massive dicks. Conversations between myself and spiders would probably go something like this:

“Hey spider, mind not running up my trouser leg?”

“You killed my mum last night.”

“Ah.”

Thinking about it, the social stress of it would begin to grate as well: when would you ever be able to relax? A spider might show up out of nowhere and engage you in dull conversation about the potential for your loft space. Their ability to talk would also complicate getting rid of them: would killing a talking spider be socially acceptable? Would it be classed as murder? I don’t even know anymore.

The more I think about it, talking spiders would be an absolute nightmare.

Imagine this interrupting your sleep at 3AM:

shudder