Whilst surfing Twitter recently, I was reminded about the world plight of the humble honey bee, a creature ignored by me for some decades. Why? I spent them recovering from the scars of my teenage years.
Let me explain. I was around five or six years old when my father brought home his first swarm of bees. Weird, I thought. Like you do when you’re that age. I didn’t realise I was expected to partake in looking after them.
We dutifully dressed in long sleeves and trousers, my brother and I wearing the bee hats mother had recently sewn for us. We stood at a ‘safe’ distance on a drowsy summer’s evening in the orchard and watched as father presented the bees with their new home, and we waited for their approval. Over the next few years, it became apparent that my mother and brother were allergic to the stings…
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