I once tried to eat a wasp’s nest.
The punt at the bottom reminded me of how, the bigger the indent on the bottle of wine, the better it tastes.
It had looked quite appetising; I’d skipped lunch earlier.
Biting into it was like cracking open the world’s worst Kinder Surprise.
The wasps were more delicate than I’d expected. I pressed them against the roof of my mouth, and they squashed like caviar.
I bit the wings off and ate them separately.
They cracked and dissolved on my tongue. I scraped the rubbery dregs off with my front teeth and spat them out so I could rub them between my fingers.