The Beggar's Opera descended grime-ly on one sandy shore that day, Crook Finger'd Jack at point, Mrs Peachum with the heavy artillery and Mister Tramp bringing up the rear, bashing an old drum with scabby fists.
As the sea heaved into view we took out the croquet set and began to enjoy a short knockabout. Not satisfied with this, Jemmy Twitcher suggested we mount each other's backs and turn it into a gruelling game of Polo.
Fortunately for my vertebrae we were then interrupted by a passing swarm of Ladybirds. It was not a mere smattering of these red-flecked fiends, but a vast Mongol horde. No sooner had one been flicked away than ten took its place.
'Attack, attack!' screamed Matt of the Mint.
Our contingent then plunged headfirst into the fray in an attempt to drive them away. We were unprepared for what followed. Each Ladybird began to bite and nip at our exposed skin. With the flowing of blood the insects became more frenzied, chomping on limbs and faces with apparent glee. As I screamed a score or more fell into my mouth and I had little choice but to mash and crunch them before they devoured me from the inside.
'Retreat, retreat,' screamed Lucy Lockit, and we needed no further excuse. By now we were little more than walking Ladybird colonies. Movement was slow, but with each step away from the cloud more and more of our shell-winged tormentors detached and returned to their brethren.
My wailing band finally emerged bloody and broken, each of us shocked by the ferocity displayed by what we had naively believed to be friendly creatures of the garden.
At last I caught enough breath to speak: 'I say, they must have mistaken us for some sort of aphid.'
2008-04-07 @ 20:59