“Oh shit!” buzzed Gary in a panic, as he whirled past the sweaty blue poles and sweaty faces of the Piccadilly line commuters.  This was 100% not how he had envisaged spending his Thursday morning.

In an attempt to prevent an asthma attack Gary took two deep breaths, and after steadying himself made his way down the tube car.

As he flew past these early risers he became increasingly offended by their attempts to do away with him.  Darting through an ensuing assault course of rolled up metros and various other tabloids-come-make-shift-fly-swatters and the backs of clammy hands that were brandished his way, he considered giving them a deserving jab back.

“I could sting her.” thought Gary, eyeing a particularly miserable looking lady on the wrong side of 40.  He reconsidered however, after concluding from her aforementioned miserable facial expression, that her life was probably bad enough as it was and that it would really be somewhat regrettable to waste his own on her.

What a shame it was that this bleary eyed heard of suits had driven Gary to such thoughts of suicide.  He began to ruminate on how awful it truly was to be a wasp, especially in London, and how obnoxious these 9-5er’s had been, batting him away, when all he had wanted was a few simple directions.

With a huff Gary conceded that today would probably be ‘just one of those days’, and as the train pulled into Holborn he thought “fuck it, I’ll get the central line.”