Beware

Short story

I’ve not been asleep long when the ‘phone rings pulling me from a deep slumber with its jarring ringtone. Head heavy with sleep I fumble on the bedside table for my mobile, where is it? Daylight spills into the room as I pull back the curtains. Eyes heavy with sleep I look at my watch, 11pm. Who’s phoning me at this time? I grab my mobile before it clicks into answer-phone.

“What?” My is mind still groggy with wine.

“It’s Jim.” His voice is panic-stricken, “they’re all over the bedroom.”

Jim? The farmer? Over the ‘phone I hear loud buzzing, a ‘thwack’ followed by a loud shout. “Tommy. Don’t go in there; stop.  Jen, you’ve got to do something, sort this out.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Your bees. Our bedroom’s full of.” His voice shouts loud. “Close that door.” Then back to me. “He can’t go to bed. His bedroom’s full.”

Shaking my head in disbelief, my two hives are over a mile from his house. I’d trudged through a hay crop to put them into the Rape field just 4 days ago. Two full brood boxes with laying queens, brood over 7 frames, two of honey, enough space for the queen to lay; supers of drawn frames over the queen excluders so workers could start on the rape. Swarm? Couldn’t be. I’d checked thoroughly for queen cells. Had I missed one? Workers have a habit of hiding them. Raining for the last three days today has been the first day of sunshine. Yes. A swarm. My mind is racing.  Must get them out of that bedroom quickly before the queen starts laying gain. ‘Phone on shoulder I quickly dress.

“Jim. I’m coming over. Keep Tommy out of his room. Is there a vent in his bedroom?” Jim’s house is an old farmhouse, built of Yorkshire Stone.

“Yes. In the en-suite.”

“You’ve a high wall outside?” I know he has. “I’ll be with you in 10 minutes.”

Playing for time. I’m thinking fast. I need a lure. The bees will be hungry. Racing into my yard I find a nucleus hive, collect 3 frames full of honey and an extracted frame from the honey room. Dressing quickly into my bee-suit flinging on my veil before dashing to a hive in the field behind my house, I shake bees from a frame of brood with some empty cells before putting it into the nucleus. Good, a place for the queen to lay eggs. I have to work quickly. Must remember the nucleus hive’s roof.

All lights are on when I arrive, swerving into Jim’s yard. He’s at the door looking up. Halfway up the wall I see bees buzzing around a vent. Quickly I place the nucleus on top of the wall wedging the roof open to enable scout bees easy access, with its aroma of honey, to attract hungry bees, and, hopefully, find this new home.

At this moment there’s a scream from indoors, followed by, “Jim. Quick. Tommy’s been stung.”

“Oh no. He’s allergic to bees.”

I search my pockets for my epi-pen. It’s not there.

Wellington Boots

Clutching £70 I entered the Orvis to buy a pair of the lightweight Berghaus Wellies on display in the shop window. My other dog walking wellies are just so heavy, industrial, hard wearing wellies, the sort you see on farmers trudging through thick muddy fields. After walking Beth through woods, over fields, my legs ache. So, it was decided that I should buy some that were lightweight, hence my foray into Orvis, These are the cheapest wellies they sell, £64. Still expensive, but, I have wide feet

Inspiration from Dr John Conroy Clarke

Oh my goodness. What an evening of total madness and heavenly laughter. The joy of laughing, freely, albeit the NEWS – global, International and National – so miserable – and, there in the midst of this is Dr John Conroy Clarke. Punk Poet, professed Existentialist, to deliver the most hilarious interpretation of life, as it is, as now. Perfect – WHY isn’t he our PM? Such joy to listen to his views about it, and it. AND to learn he is an Aquarian. WOW. So am I.

Happiness is a good night out with the loveliest people to see and listen to the words of this punk poet, Dr John Conroy Clarke.

One of those brilliant days you remember.

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Allotment time watering with Freddie, time to play on the Rec. DSCN4113.jpg

What can be better for a lad aged three, and a grandad aged – well, well over 60, to be running around and over the Rec with Beth, the dog, excited with it all.

The allotment, fecund with apples on espaliers, cordons and stepovers. DSCN4118 (1).jpg

With Freddie watering and picking under the guidance of grandad, and me, with Beth in the background, watching over her flock, DSCN4109.jpgwaiting for the chance to round them up, to play again. DSCN4112 (1).jpg

Grandma, watered by Freddie, slowly grows.

Life is beautiful when three, and seventy-three.

Doggy Dior

Which equals her human’s view  of exotic aroma – sheep shit. She rolled in ecstasy in sheep shit. Her total circumference of neck area was covered in a green, evil smelling to us, total joy to Beth, sheep dung. Plastered, hanging in thick droplets from her neck fur. And we were furthermost away from home, with a long walk back.

Doggy psychology doesn’t blame the dog. We apply this, and reward her need to come close to us with a ‘treat’ – to keep her away from us. No way do we want to make her feel she’s done anything wrong, so – we – very carefully warn people she approaches to avoid her – and DO NOT STROKE HER – though this has to be done sensitively – to ensure she is not upset and not done anything wrong.

We encouraged her to swim a lot in the Crimple Beck – and took her to our allotment to give her a ‘rewarding’ BIG WASH with our watering cans before taking her home, where she received a lovely warm water wash after a liberally applied ‘doggy shampoo.’

I feel a lot of ‘smiley’s’ should be added here. Thank God we don’t have three dogs = rolling sheep dung.

She’s asleep now on the sofa, so clean, and looking like the gorgeous angel she is to me. Love her to bits. She keeps me grounded to the reality of life. It’s really a load of shit – and there is doggy pleasure rolling in it.

Love my dog. Love life as it is. Love Jim. [He’s the human part in all of this.]