The summer Fayre was in full swing, and the crowds had turned out in their hundreds because there wasn't a weird pandemic sweeping the land which meant they all had to stay at home. Aaah, the good old days !
Little Abbey Churchsteeple, aged 8, was just enjoying the last mouthful of her candy floss, when for no apparent reason, she dropped the sugary coated stick to the ground, and let out a yelp.
As some big boys laughed and pointed, because they are horrible, and that's what big boys who frequent summer fayres do, the cause of Abbey's distress became evident.
Dangling from her lower arm, a bee could be seen, frantically trying to disengage itself from the gluey glob of venom that stuck it fast to the venom sack atop it's stinger, a stinger that was embedded in the soft pale flesh of Abbey's lower arm.
Her mother, with building panic, screamed "Someone, quick ... get a first aider! Her name is Abbey, and she is allergic to bee stings and COULD DIE!!!"
While it is true that someone who is allergic to bee stings could, indeed, die in the event of being stung, her exclamation was extreme, although conveniently informative.
As a first aider, you are standing nearby glaring at the big boys for their horrible treatment of Abbey. You kneel beside Abbey, and ask ... "Hey, Abbey, Do you have an epi-pen with you ?" Through her tears, Abbey nods, and takes, from the wee bag you hadn't noticed slung across her shoulder, her auto injector.
"Good," you say. "Now let's get that nasty bee sting out of your arm, and your epi-pen ready, shall we ?"
You notice, as you are speaking to her that she is starting to show signs of anaphylaxis.