deep pockets

So, like,

I'm walking through Hampstead Heath on Sunday morning, brilliant, gorgeous day, and, do you ever, like, I thought everybody did this, but apparently it's just me, sometimes I'll sort of absent-mindedly pick some lint out of my pocket and start rolling it into a ball between my thumb and forefinger.

So I'm walking along, not really conciously doing this, but doing it nonetheless, when it comes to me that the lint seems so be somewhat more moist and, well, squishy than lint really has any expectation of reasonably being.

So I look down at my hand and emit a yelp of fear and throw the piece of lint away from me, except only it's not a piece of lint at all, it's a small, rolled up bee. Poor little guy- he must have flown into my hand or my pocket at the wrong moment and I just started rolling him. Maybe he hadn't learnt to use his stinger just yet, or possibly the stinger was rolled into the middle before he had a chance to get me.

Still, not the best way to go.