Trog

Tales from the Hive ... Sabotage!

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The Wee Bee flew swiftly home from the beekeeper's house and reported straight to Mitzzi and the Queen.

'She's planning to have the association over for a demonstration on Sunday afternoon', she said.

'Have you been hacking her email again?', asked Mitzzi.

'No, just looking in through the window at the laptop.'

The beekeeper had indeed noticed a bee taking a great deal of interest in the area around the window and wondered why she was bothering, given that there was nothing in flower in that particular bed, but thought nothing of it.

The Queen was most displeased. 'We can't possibly have visitors this early in the season. I mean, look at the state of the place. There's still some winter debris stuck to the floor and as for those outer combs … have you seen the size of that slug in the top-front-left corner? They'll think we're most unhygenic and slothful. Which we're not, of course, we simply have other more important things to do just now.'

'Don't worry, yer maj,' responded the ever-resourceful Mitzzi, 'we'll sort things out.'

The day before the planned meeting the beekeeper was puzzled by the lack of response to her emailed invitations. For some very strange reason nobody had received them. She sighed and reached for the phone. Saturday's supper would just have to wait until she'd phoned everybody on the list. Oddly, there was a bee out rather late, just sitting on the windowsill cleaning herself. 'Must have freed herself from a spider's web.', thought the beekeeper as she left yet another message on an unanswered phone. Everybody she had contacted was to phone in the morning to check that the meeting was on before they travelled but the weather forecast was excellent. The beginners had been reminded to bring rubber gloves, wellies and bee-proof clothing. Veils would be provided.

Sunday dawned damp and misty. This was not unusual; surely it would burn off as the morning progressed. Alas, it did not and the cloud descended further and the beekeeper and her husband had an interesting discussion over coffee as to whether it was radiation or advection fog; in other words, was it likely to shift? A few folk phoned in; those who were in a part of the island enjoying sunshine were a little surprised to hear that it was pouring with thin but very wet drizzle over the planned meeting-place. They would have been even more surprised to see a small group of bees dancing a rain-dance inside one of the hives [I think we can all guess which one, can't we?]. Bees who are dab-hands (should that be feet?) at an Eightsome Reel have no problems with any other form of dance and, having failed to stop the proposed meeting by other means, had resorted to Plan Bee.

The meeting was called off and, half an hour after what would have been the starting time, Mitzzi flew out to the sundial to check the time, there being sufficient weak sunshine to cast a light shadow, and let the dancers know they could stop.

'About bloomin' time,' puffed one or two of the less-fit bees, heading for a nectar-break up-comb. Bang on cue the sun emerged, the drizzle vanished and bees from all the hives headed out in droves to enjoy the cherry, willow and assorted wild flowers a few yards away. The beekeeper watched them for a while then wandered off to make a pot of tea to go with the pile of cakes specially made for the apres-meet bunfight. 'I suppose we'll just have to eat them ourselves,' said the other beekeeper, 'What a pity!'

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