Making tea is supposed to be a boring anchor to the morning, but on Friday there was a cloud of interesting visible through the kitchen window: a swarm of bees had found the slightly-open lid of our composter. It’s not a hugely exciting narrative from here: we found the owner, he came round to collect them, and told us they’d been there long enough to make four and a half inches of honeycomb, and there had been a queen and, what, fifteen or twenty thousand of the things in there. And that we shouldn’t be in that garden for a couple of hours in case there were any returning from foraging and growing confused and angry. [We obeyed in the pub.] I worry slightly that such a thing feels like a blessing; I’m glad we found a good home rather than pest control. J’s sad because there are a couple of bees that have been lurking there all weekend, one trying to get in the compost bin’s lid even though we’ve sealed it properly, the other guarding her as she tries.
Sadly I wasn’t brave enough to take photos.