Click, Don’t Waft!!!

(And Other Useless Advice During a Meltdown)

It was a peaceful-ish afternoon at Millie’s Farm Café in Barrow — birds chirping, coffee brewing, cows chewing, tents and caravans lying void of human occupancy in the heat across the field.

Damien and I were sat outside, soaking up the sun, feeling very smug with our plates of moist (sorry, I had to say moist — childish humour), sugar-filled cakie goodness and cappuccinos. Damien had his usual carrot cake — git took the last slice — and I went for the Munchie chocolate brownie.

For some reason, the barista had decided to cover the saucer in chocolate sprinkles and nearly missed the actual cup. I giggled as Damien took the spoon and scraped the sprinkles into the coffee. That man will not waste a single morsel.

Bloody lovely cakes if you get chance to visit.

Anyway, I digress...

Until the wasps arrived.

We proceeded to waft and tell them to fuck off — like they could understand human irritation in verbal format.

Luckily, once we’d devoured our cake and coffee, the wasps ‘did one’ and we were left in peace.
That is, until they made a beeline (couldn’t think of a wasp-related segue) for the two twenty-something girls sat at the table next to ours.

Seconds before the attack, their paninis had just been placed in front of them.
And let me tell you, what followed was performance frikkin art.

One of the girls had clearly appointed herself head of the situation. You know the type — calm, composed, slightly judgemental of anyone who doesn’t have their shit together in the same way she apparently does (if that’s even possible in your early twenties). Probably has a wasp contingency plan in her Notes app.

She turned to her friend and, with all the authority of a head maitre d, instructed:

“Click at them. Just click. DO NOT WAFT.”

Her friend — visibly unsure how to click at a wasp — tried her best, while Damien and I sat back like we’d paid for front-row seats. There they were, both of them madly clicking at these tiny, striped terrorists.

Yellow and black ninjas. Tiny. Lethal. No respect for authority.

It was hilarious — until the calm one started to unravel. Her jaw tensed. Her shoulders rose. And then…

She wafted.

Voice got annoyingly loud.

Then she batted.

Then she stood up and started flailing like an unhinged tree pose in a yoga class — arms everywhere, voice rising, composure shattered. Her friend froze, mid-click.

Eventually, after exhausting every form of arm-based faffery known to man, she declared:

“Right. We’re going inside. Go get us a table. We’re not sitting out here with those things.”

And off they went — paninis in hand, defeated by wasps and their own nervous systems.

It got me thinking.
We all have our version of this, don’t we?

We tell ourselves to stay calm.
Don’t react.
Be logical.
Don’t waft.

But then life buzzes too close — an email, a comment, a schedule that’s too full, a pants night sleep — and suddenly we’re in full ninja-mode ourselves. Spinning. Snapping. Clicking wildly at invisible stress.

Even when we know what would help — breathe, pause, slow down — it often comes after the panic, not before.

So maybe the goal isn’t to be the person who never wafts.
Maybe it’s just to notice when the yellow and black ninjas are winning…
and know when to take your panini, your pride, and move inside.

P.S. Out of curiosity, we had a bash at clicking the wasps. I can say with 100% certainty — it did naff all.
(Or maybe we just didn’t have the technique nailed.)

If your nervous system’s been flapping more than flowing lately, come and join me for a yoga class or if you need something more 1-2-1 I offer movement coaching to help you feel better in your body again.

Not to fix you.
Not to calm you down on command.
To give you the tools for when the buzzing starts.

Signing out,

Lynz x