It is said that you learn something new every day. Yesterday, for example, I learned that Scott and Geraldine, our bee mentors, make exceedingly good cake. And today I learned that if you try and balance on one foot in your polytunnel after four and a half hours of digging in the hot sun and try to change your wellies and socks for pumps and bare feet in order to begin the half hour walk home, you are bound to over-balance and put your naked foot down into the pile of horse manure you put in the polytunnel two days ago.
Yuk! Still, no-one bothered me on the way home...
So yesterday evening, Andy and I began our bee-keeping course. Scott and Geraldine are independent bee-keepers, not affiliated to any local association. All they want to do is pass on their considerable knowledge to embryonic bee-keepers like us, and avoid the cliquey attitudes and behaviours that can happen in some clubs and societies. And that's fine by me. I've lost count of the number of times I've tried to contact our local bee-keeping association and been roundly ignored. You'd think, with the state of bee populations at the moment, they would welcome people keen to learn the art. Apparently not.
But we're off and running now! We've signed up for a block of ten 2 hour lessons, theory and practical, half-time tea and cake included. And what a lot there is to take in! Bees are a lot more complex and crafty than I ever thought. And managing a colony is a tricky art. Things to look out for, things to avoid, strategies to put into place to prevent swarming, and all the horrid diseases to which bees are susceptible. It's like being back at university.
But we enjoyed ourselves enormously. So much so that Andy said, 'We should find something else to learn about in the evenings. What else could we do?'
I stared. It was gone ten p.m. I was trying to remember what the name of the other type of brood frame was called - one was a Hoffman, the other was a ...??
So, quite randomly, I said, 'Cheesemaking.'
'We'd need a cow for that,' said Andy. 'Think of something else.'
'What's the name of the frame that's not a Hoffman?' I said. It was cheesemaking or nothing for me, I'm afraid.
'Manley,' said Andy.
'That's it!!' said I.
'I know,' said Andy. 'See, I was paying attention.'
There was considerable bee activity at the allotment this morning. I stopped periodically to watch them going about their stuff. And that's something else I learned today - that bees have the potential to be as good time wasters as chickens. There was also some wire worm activity, but I hoisted them off the plot PDQ - no wire worms wrecking our spuds this year, oh no!
And then I planted some carrots, beetroot and strawberries and netted the gooseberries to stop the birdies getting at the flower buds which I think is what happened last year, thus resulting in a total harvest of 7 gooseberries. Hardly a pie.
And then I staggered home, smelling slightly whiffy and feeling more than a bit achey.
If I was a bee, I thought, as I made my way up the slight incline towards the Manor, I would be able to fly home. But I fear I am even less aerodynamic than a bee; I'd never get off the ground.
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Poo!
Or muck, or manure, or droppings, or dollops - however you wish to view the substance.
We have located a source of poo. Other than the chickens, of course, who have been providing copious poo for two years now and have done a sterling job (pardon the pun!) of making our home compost bin wilt down at a highly satisfactory rate. And you have to be careful where you chuck neat chicken poo as it is very strong and not all our plants would appreciate the acid burns.
So it's ridiculous how something like finding another source of poo can make you feel wildly happy and at one with the world. Our friend, Jean, has a friend called Sue, who has a horse called Dennis, who is liveried (is that the correct term? I don't know - it's a long time since I rode a horse) at a stables way up high on the Downs. And where there's horses, there's poo.
'Come and take as much as you like!' we were told.
So yesterday evening we took many empty sacks and a shovel and loaded up our car (sans its seats to give us more space) with poo from the stables. It was nice poo. Two years old, nicely rotted, full of worms. But when we took it to the allotment and spread it out, it didn't do very far.
'This is when we could do with a trailer,' said I. 'So we could get great wodges of poo in one hit.'
'I'd like a trailer,' said Andy. 'But where would we store it?'
This is the problem, you see. We are running out of space to do the things we want to do. By the time we've squeezed in our beehives times two, we're going to be full up. And we still want to do things like keep more poultry, maybe a goat or two. A couple of pigs. A cow.
And grow more veg so we can keep not only ourselves stocked up with food but more of our extended family, too. And I suspect that once we get going, we shall end up wanting a couple more hives.
So, pushing aside the frustration of not having enough space, we shall concentrate on collecting more poo via many mini-trips twixt stables and allotment. And make the most of what we have.
I had to nip to Sainsbugs early this morning to get cat food. Three hungry cats staring at you makes you do things like this.
'I can't believe you've run out of cat food,' said Tybalt, reproachfully.
'Me neither,' said I, reproached.
'What if we starve?' said Phoebe the Fat.
'I think that's highly unlikely,' I said.
Pandora declined to comment; she was too busy chewing a table leg.
So Andy dropped me off at Sainsbugs on his way to work. Actually, he dropped me in the middle of a three way set of traffic lights, which added a frisson of excitement to the morning. And because I made several other purchases and didn't want my knuckles dragging on the ground by the time I'd walked home with very heavy shopping bags I decided to catch the bus home.
There was only me and one other on the bus. And the driver, of course. So we got on, and sat, and waited for the bus to leave. The other person was a young girl. She sat at the back of the bus, plugged into her i-pod. And bearing in mind she was sitting as far away from me as she possibly could, I was able to hear her i-pod quite clearly. Which only went to prove my theory that in ten years time there will be a whole generation of people draining NHS resources with their self-inflicted hearing problems. But that's another blogsworth.
After 5 minutes, it became apparent the bus was going nowhere fast. I was okay, I had a newspaper to keep me occupied. But the young girl was getting tetchy.
'How long are we going to be sitting here?' she yelled down the length of the bus. I thought, I hope the driver doesn't think that was me shrieking like a common fish wife.
When no response came forth (perhaps the driver was i-podding,too) the girl got up and stomped to the front of the bus.
'How long before we leave?' she said.
'Well,' said the driver, 'there's a jam at the end of the bus lane consisting of four buses. As soon as they sort themselves out, we can get going.'
'Only I'm going to be late for work,' said the girl.
I thought, perhaps you could make a bit more time for your journey in the morning, thereby avoiding potential traffic stress. That's what I do. Factor in extra travel time. Ah, the youth of today. They could learn a lot from me.
The girl stomped back to her seat. The bus sat still for another five minutes. From the back of the bus there elicited a series of sighs and humphs growing ever more grumpy. The i-pod got louder.
And then off we went. The driver drove like a maniac. I stopped reading my paper because reading on a moving vehicle makes me nauseous. And then the bus stopped to pick up a man who, by the aroma of alcohol that followed him, was clearly more than a bit tipsy. He just about managed to state his destination, and then proceeded to pay his fare with a large collection of very small change, holding up the bus even longer.
I thought the girl was going to launch off her seat and clump him. However, she reigned herself in to a loud exclamation of 'OH MY GOD!'
I thought, I know what that girl needs. Poo, that's what she needs. She needs to get her wellies on, grab a shovel and spend an evening at a stables shovelling poo into bags, marvelling at its crumbly texture and the proliferance of worms and thinking how marvellous it will be for her vegetables.
It would have been nice to talk to her about these things. But something told me not to risk it.
We have located a source of poo. Other than the chickens, of course, who have been providing copious poo for two years now and have done a sterling job (pardon the pun!) of making our home compost bin wilt down at a highly satisfactory rate. And you have to be careful where you chuck neat chicken poo as it is very strong and not all our plants would appreciate the acid burns.
So it's ridiculous how something like finding another source of poo can make you feel wildly happy and at one with the world. Our friend, Jean, has a friend called Sue, who has a horse called Dennis, who is liveried (is that the correct term? I don't know - it's a long time since I rode a horse) at a stables way up high on the Downs. And where there's horses, there's poo.
'Come and take as much as you like!' we were told.
So yesterday evening we took many empty sacks and a shovel and loaded up our car (sans its seats to give us more space) with poo from the stables. It was nice poo. Two years old, nicely rotted, full of worms. But when we took it to the allotment and spread it out, it didn't do very far.
'This is when we could do with a trailer,' said I. 'So we could get great wodges of poo in one hit.'
'I'd like a trailer,' said Andy. 'But where would we store it?'
This is the problem, you see. We are running out of space to do the things we want to do. By the time we've squeezed in our beehives times two, we're going to be full up. And we still want to do things like keep more poultry, maybe a goat or two. A couple of pigs. A cow.
And grow more veg so we can keep not only ourselves stocked up with food but more of our extended family, too. And I suspect that once we get going, we shall end up wanting a couple more hives.
So, pushing aside the frustration of not having enough space, we shall concentrate on collecting more poo via many mini-trips twixt stables and allotment. And make the most of what we have.
I had to nip to Sainsbugs early this morning to get cat food. Three hungry cats staring at you makes you do things like this.
'I can't believe you've run out of cat food,' said Tybalt, reproachfully.
'Me neither,' said I, reproached.
'What if we starve?' said Phoebe the Fat.
'I think that's highly unlikely,' I said.
Pandora declined to comment; she was too busy chewing a table leg.
So Andy dropped me off at Sainsbugs on his way to work. Actually, he dropped me in the middle of a three way set of traffic lights, which added a frisson of excitement to the morning. And because I made several other purchases and didn't want my knuckles dragging on the ground by the time I'd walked home with very heavy shopping bags I decided to catch the bus home.
There was only me and one other on the bus. And the driver, of course. So we got on, and sat, and waited for the bus to leave. The other person was a young girl. She sat at the back of the bus, plugged into her i-pod. And bearing in mind she was sitting as far away from me as she possibly could, I was able to hear her i-pod quite clearly. Which only went to prove my theory that in ten years time there will be a whole generation of people draining NHS resources with their self-inflicted hearing problems. But that's another blogsworth.
After 5 minutes, it became apparent the bus was going nowhere fast. I was okay, I had a newspaper to keep me occupied. But the young girl was getting tetchy.
'How long are we going to be sitting here?' she yelled down the length of the bus. I thought, I hope the driver doesn't think that was me shrieking like a common fish wife.
When no response came forth (perhaps the driver was i-podding,too) the girl got up and stomped to the front of the bus.
'How long before we leave?' she said.
'Well,' said the driver, 'there's a jam at the end of the bus lane consisting of four buses. As soon as they sort themselves out, we can get going.'
'Only I'm going to be late for work,' said the girl.
I thought, perhaps you could make a bit more time for your journey in the morning, thereby avoiding potential traffic stress. That's what I do. Factor in extra travel time. Ah, the youth of today. They could learn a lot from me.
The girl stomped back to her seat. The bus sat still for another five minutes. From the back of the bus there elicited a series of sighs and humphs growing ever more grumpy. The i-pod got louder.
And then off we went. The driver drove like a maniac. I stopped reading my paper because reading on a moving vehicle makes me nauseous. And then the bus stopped to pick up a man who, by the aroma of alcohol that followed him, was clearly more than a bit tipsy. He just about managed to state his destination, and then proceeded to pay his fare with a large collection of very small change, holding up the bus even longer.
I thought the girl was going to launch off her seat and clump him. However, she reigned herself in to a loud exclamation of 'OH MY GOD!'
I thought, I know what that girl needs. Poo, that's what she needs. She needs to get her wellies on, grab a shovel and spend an evening at a stables shovelling poo into bags, marvelling at its crumbly texture and the proliferance of worms and thinking how marvellous it will be for her vegetables.
It would have been nice to talk to her about these things. But something told me not to risk it.
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
General Eleggtion
Firstly, an apology to Mrs Pumphrey.
'Well, about time too,' says Mrs Pumphrey. She is sitting opposite me, perched on the beehive, as I take up residence at my writing desk (a long since missed seat since returning to teaching.)
'I'm sorry,' I say. 'Look, I'm on the interwebbly now, ready to make amends.'
'You've been on the interwebbly TWICE since it happened, and ne'er a mention,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'This seat is very comfy by the way. What's it made from?'
'It isn't a seat, it's a beehive,' I say. 'And I don't think you'll be finding it so comfy when the new residents arrive in a few weeks. It's made from cedar. And zinc.'
'That'll be why it's warm,' says Mrs Pumphrey. Mrs Pumphrey, unfortunately, has been returned to her pink pants status by Mrs Slocombe. When sitting down, she needs all the warmth she can get.
'And who are these new residents?' continues Mrs Pumphrey. 'Not that squeaky pink thing that came and squirmed around on the floor yesterday, I hope. You'll never fit it in here,' and she taps the beehive with her foot. 'Not without a lot of squishing anyway.'
'That squeaky pink thing is my grand-daughter,' I say. 'Whom I have no intention of keeping in a beehive when she visits. The new residents are bees. Will be bees. When they arrive.'
'So what are they now?' asks Mrs Pumphrey.
'A glint in the Queen Bee's eye,' I say. For I have been reading voraciously about bees and know it takes three weeks for a bee to grow from egg to flight. So any bees that will be arriving at the end of May are still a couple of bee cycles away. (A bee cycle is nothing like a unicycle and should therefore not be confused. Unicycles might have more wheels than bees cycles, but the honey they produce is vile.)
'How many bees?' says Mrs Pumphrey. She is sounding rather suspicious.
'About 10,000 to start with,' I say.
'I see,' says Pumphrey. ' I'd better start knitting then.'
I think at this moment it will be unwise to engage Mrs Pumphrey in further enquiry vis a vis her knitting plans. All I know is that bees have 6 legs each, so if she's going for the bootee option, she's got her work well and truly cut out.
'Well, have you told them yet?' says Mrs Pumphrey, giving me a bit of a nudge.
'I'm just about to,' I say. 'Ahem...on Saturday 3rd April, Mrs Gloria Pumphrey maintained and extended her record of 'Biggest Egg Laid At Much Malarkey Manor' by producing a WHOPPER weighing in at 108 grammes. This is 15 grammes larger than the previous record, also held by Mrs Gloria Pumphrey. There, will that do?'
'Thank you,' said Mrs Pumphrey. (She's giving a little bow now, if you'd like to applaud.) 'Do continue.'
'And,' I continue, 'further more, based on her enormous egg laying prowess, Mrs Gloria Pumphrey would like to announce that she has today been to Buckingham Palace and announced to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II that she will be in the running for job of Prime Minister, given that Gordon Brown has finally flung in the towel.'
'Indeed,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And she was jolly pleased too. She said, 'One needs more sterling hens like you running the country.'
'Did she?' I say. 'DID SHE??'
'Not in so many words,' says Mrs P. 'But the implication was there.'
So there we have it. Mrs Pumphrey will be running for election to be Prime Minister of Britain. She is very excited. She is off now to begin her campaign in earnest ( a small village just north-east of the Manor). Mrs Miggins is her campaign manager (on the proviso that she gets to be Chancellor of the Eggschequer when Mrs Pumphrey wins.) Mrs Slocombe is making rosettes, and canvassing in Hotel Chocolat, Thorntons, and the chocolate aisles of most major supermarkets. She is angling for post of Minister for Eggducation. But I want that job so she'll have to arm wrestle me for it. (No pecking allowed.)
And although he doesn't know it yet, Andy will be writing the party manifesto (Mrs Pumphrey was very impressed by the speech he made at our wedding.)
And then, on 6th May, it will be up to you, the great British eleggtorate to return, via democratic voting, Mrs Pumphrey to her rightful post.
The one at the end of the garden. Next to the dust bath.
'Well, about time too,' says Mrs Pumphrey. She is sitting opposite me, perched on the beehive, as I take up residence at my writing desk (a long since missed seat since returning to teaching.)
'I'm sorry,' I say. 'Look, I'm on the interwebbly now, ready to make amends.'
'You've been on the interwebbly TWICE since it happened, and ne'er a mention,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'This seat is very comfy by the way. What's it made from?'
'It isn't a seat, it's a beehive,' I say. 'And I don't think you'll be finding it so comfy when the new residents arrive in a few weeks. It's made from cedar. And zinc.'
'That'll be why it's warm,' says Mrs Pumphrey. Mrs Pumphrey, unfortunately, has been returned to her pink pants status by Mrs Slocombe. When sitting down, she needs all the warmth she can get.
'And who are these new residents?' continues Mrs Pumphrey. 'Not that squeaky pink thing that came and squirmed around on the floor yesterday, I hope. You'll never fit it in here,' and she taps the beehive with her foot. 'Not without a lot of squishing anyway.'
'That squeaky pink thing is my grand-daughter,' I say. 'Whom I have no intention of keeping in a beehive when she visits. The new residents are bees. Will be bees. When they arrive.'
'So what are they now?' asks Mrs Pumphrey.
'A glint in the Queen Bee's eye,' I say. For I have been reading voraciously about bees and know it takes three weeks for a bee to grow from egg to flight. So any bees that will be arriving at the end of May are still a couple of bee cycles away. (A bee cycle is nothing like a unicycle and should therefore not be confused. Unicycles might have more wheels than bees cycles, but the honey they produce is vile.)
'How many bees?' says Mrs Pumphrey. She is sounding rather suspicious.
'About 10,000 to start with,' I say.
'I see,' says Pumphrey. ' I'd better start knitting then.'
I think at this moment it will be unwise to engage Mrs Pumphrey in further enquiry vis a vis her knitting plans. All I know is that bees have 6 legs each, so if she's going for the bootee option, she's got her work well and truly cut out.
'Well, have you told them yet?' says Mrs Pumphrey, giving me a bit of a nudge.
'I'm just about to,' I say. 'Ahem...on Saturday 3rd April, Mrs Gloria Pumphrey maintained and extended her record of 'Biggest Egg Laid At Much Malarkey Manor' by producing a WHOPPER weighing in at 108 grammes. This is 15 grammes larger than the previous record, also held by Mrs Gloria Pumphrey. There, will that do?'
'Thank you,' said Mrs Pumphrey. (She's giving a little bow now, if you'd like to applaud.) 'Do continue.'
'And,' I continue, 'further more, based on her enormous egg laying prowess, Mrs Gloria Pumphrey would like to announce that she has today been to Buckingham Palace and announced to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II that she will be in the running for job of Prime Minister, given that Gordon Brown has finally flung in the towel.'
'Indeed,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And she was jolly pleased too. She said, 'One needs more sterling hens like you running the country.'
'Did she?' I say. 'DID SHE??'
'Not in so many words,' says Mrs P. 'But the implication was there.'
So there we have it. Mrs Pumphrey will be running for election to be Prime Minister of Britain. She is very excited. She is off now to begin her campaign in earnest ( a small village just north-east of the Manor). Mrs Miggins is her campaign manager (on the proviso that she gets to be Chancellor of the Eggschequer when Mrs Pumphrey wins.) Mrs Slocombe is making rosettes, and canvassing in Hotel Chocolat, Thorntons, and the chocolate aisles of most major supermarkets. She is angling for post of Minister for Eggducation. But I want that job so she'll have to arm wrestle me for it. (No pecking allowed.)
And although he doesn't know it yet, Andy will be writing the party manifesto (Mrs Pumphrey was very impressed by the speech he made at our wedding.)
And then, on 6th May, it will be up to you, the great British eleggtorate to return, via democratic voting, Mrs Pumphrey to her rightful post.
The one at the end of the garden. Next to the dust bath.
Monday, 5 April 2010
She's not Denise, she's a Very Naughty Girl
At the allotment this morning, I was, according to Andy, a very naughty girl.
Not because I spent three hours clearing the weedy patch which used to be the old compost heap before String Girl put her compost bins in the wrong place thereby forcing us to move our compost bins so our onions (or whatever) didn't become swamped in String Girl's nettles and other assorted weeds. And not because I shouted encouragement to Andy every now and then because he was in charge of potato planting and it was a very big job requiring much huffing and puffing and the occasional lie down on the ground.
No, my naughtiness surrounded the planting of the tayberry bush donated by Auntie Pollie.
Now, in my defence, everything would have been fine and no naughtiness would have ensued had not the old geezer from the allotment opposite arrived about half an hour before we left. You know, the old geezer who INSISTED our blackberry was a tayberry, and I INSISTED it wasn't, and he INSISTED it was and wouldn't BACK DOWN?
So, anyway, there I was heeling in the tayberry. It's a big tayberry. It smacked me around the face a couple of times like a frantic octopus, but I wrestled it into the ground without too much of a to do. And then the Old Geezer appeared.
'What's that, then?' he said, pointing his cigarette in the direction of the tayberry. I resisted the urge to go into one of my violent hacking fits as I am wont to do when in the vicinity of a cigarette (it's my way of showing displeasure at this awful habit. It's not very subtle, but I'm a granny now and grannies know no subtlety.)
'I don't know,' I said, with the air of an innocent, or possibly an imbecile. 'It was given to us by someone who's just moved into a new house and didn't want it in their garden any more.'
Andy, who was lurking near the polytunnel, let out a bit of a choke.
'Still,' I continued, maintaining a cheerful ambivalence to the whopping fib I just told. 'I'm popping it in the ground to see what happens.' And I carried on my heeling in.
The old geezer looked at the tayberry bush, and examined the leaves. Ha! I thought. Can't resist it, can you? Can't resist the urge to fling your aged wisdom around our patch, just to assert your superior knowledge over the young whippersnappers who turn up and do a bit of digging once in a blue moon.
'Looks like something from the raspberry family,' he said.
'Ummm,' said I, nonchalantly. 'That's what I thought, but hey ho, we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?'
'Probably one of them ornamental flowering varieties,' said Old Geezer, and he wandered off to plague some one else, trailing his superior knowledge behind him.
'You are VERY bad,' said Andy, as we loaded the car to go home.
'What???' I said.
'You know,' said Andy.
'All I know,' I said, 'is that at some point the Old Geezer is going to say, 'That's a tayberry bush you've got there,' and I shall get to say, 'Oh, but it can't POSSIBLY be a tayberry. THAT'S a tayberry - and I shall point to the blackberry - because you told us it was last year.'
'But they look totally different,' said Andy.
'I KNOW!!' I said, triumphantly. 'HA!'
'Like I said,' said Andy. 'You are a VERY naughty girl.'
And that is why, because I am very observant of the laws of karma, I NEVER buy a lottery ticket.
Not because I spent three hours clearing the weedy patch which used to be the old compost heap before String Girl put her compost bins in the wrong place thereby forcing us to move our compost bins so our onions (or whatever) didn't become swamped in String Girl's nettles and other assorted weeds. And not because I shouted encouragement to Andy every now and then because he was in charge of potato planting and it was a very big job requiring much huffing and puffing and the occasional lie down on the ground.
No, my naughtiness surrounded the planting of the tayberry bush donated by Auntie Pollie.
Now, in my defence, everything would have been fine and no naughtiness would have ensued had not the old geezer from the allotment opposite arrived about half an hour before we left. You know, the old geezer who INSISTED our blackberry was a tayberry, and I INSISTED it wasn't, and he INSISTED it was and wouldn't BACK DOWN?
So, anyway, there I was heeling in the tayberry. It's a big tayberry. It smacked me around the face a couple of times like a frantic octopus, but I wrestled it into the ground without too much of a to do. And then the Old Geezer appeared.
'What's that, then?' he said, pointing his cigarette in the direction of the tayberry. I resisted the urge to go into one of my violent hacking fits as I am wont to do when in the vicinity of a cigarette (it's my way of showing displeasure at this awful habit. It's not very subtle, but I'm a granny now and grannies know no subtlety.)
'I don't know,' I said, with the air of an innocent, or possibly an imbecile. 'It was given to us by someone who's just moved into a new house and didn't want it in their garden any more.'
Andy, who was lurking near the polytunnel, let out a bit of a choke.
'Still,' I continued, maintaining a cheerful ambivalence to the whopping fib I just told. 'I'm popping it in the ground to see what happens.' And I carried on my heeling in.
The old geezer looked at the tayberry bush, and examined the leaves. Ha! I thought. Can't resist it, can you? Can't resist the urge to fling your aged wisdom around our patch, just to assert your superior knowledge over the young whippersnappers who turn up and do a bit of digging once in a blue moon.
'Looks like something from the raspberry family,' he said.
'Ummm,' said I, nonchalantly. 'That's what I thought, but hey ho, we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?'
'Probably one of them ornamental flowering varieties,' said Old Geezer, and he wandered off to plague some one else, trailing his superior knowledge behind him.
'You are VERY bad,' said Andy, as we loaded the car to go home.
'What???' I said.
'You know,' said Andy.
'All I know,' I said, 'is that at some point the Old Geezer is going to say, 'That's a tayberry bush you've got there,' and I shall get to say, 'Oh, but it can't POSSIBLY be a tayberry. THAT'S a tayberry - and I shall point to the blackberry - because you told us it was last year.'
'But they look totally different,' said Andy.
'I KNOW!!' I said, triumphantly. 'HA!'
'Like I said,' said Andy. 'You are a VERY naughty girl.'
And that is why, because I am very observant of the laws of karma, I NEVER buy a lottery ticket.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Bee Hives Maketh the Man
'So how's it going?' I call from the living room where I am hiding with a book about beekeeping. The living room is a safe distance from my writing room, where hive building is occurring in earnest. I say 'safe' because flying nails are generally unable to negotiate corners.
'**"!!&% ($%^&) **^&"' says Andy. '**&$!!**'
'Good, good,' I say. I return to my bee keeping book. The writer is regaling a story of being left hanging from a tree branch by one hand whilst clinging on to a swarm in a box he'd collected just seconds before his ladder skidded away from 'neath him.
I read on for a few minutes. The occasional curse emits from my writing room. Periodically, Andy appears in the doorway of the living room looking red-faced and annoyed.
'Everything okay?' I say.
'Humph,' says Andy.
'Can I help at all?' I say.
'Harrumph,' says Andy. He flicks a bit of sweat from his brow and returns to the hive-in-progress.
Sometimes I am brave enought to enter hive building territory. Having been raised by a carpenter, I know only too well that it is unwise to come between a man and his work space, especially where wood is concerned. I think there is something in the sap that makes them go slightly mental. And NEVER offer advice. Offer tea. And cake. Nothing else.
Sometimes I am summoned to offer advice. Andy tells me the problem; he tells me what he thinks he ought to do. And I agree. This is the most tactful and reassuring form of advice to offer if you want to come out of the other side of the experience with your relationship intact.
Personally, I am very impressed that Andy has cracked on with the hive building with such gusto. When we arrived home, he said, 'I'm not going to build it today.' Which is okay. I think it's the correct form, when buying anything that needs constructing from series of parts, to leave the parts sitting in a heap for a week or so, in order that they may glower at you and intimidate you from the corner of the room, so any thought of simple construction goes clean out of the window and you end up convincing yourself you've got a major building problem on your hands.
But within a couple of hours construction is underway. And by the end of the day...
TA-DAH!! A beehive!!
Andy is convinced he has put it together completely wrong. I examine the hive. It looks like all the pictures in all the books we have amassed. It stays together. It doesn't wobble. If I was a bee, I'd live there. I might put up a few curtains and pictures and have a rug or two on the floor, but yes, I'd definitely live in Andy's new build, detached, attractive des res beehive.
And this morning, whilst I was scaring myself about how to examine the status of a queen cell in order to stop potential swarming, he built a brood frame!
It's all going very well.
'**"!!&% ($%^&) **^&"' says Andy. '**&$!!**'
'Good, good,' I say. I return to my bee keeping book. The writer is regaling a story of being left hanging from a tree branch by one hand whilst clinging on to a swarm in a box he'd collected just seconds before his ladder skidded away from 'neath him.
I read on for a few minutes. The occasional curse emits from my writing room. Periodically, Andy appears in the doorway of the living room looking red-faced and annoyed.
'Everything okay?' I say.
'Humph,' says Andy.
'Can I help at all?' I say.
'Harrumph,' says Andy. He flicks a bit of sweat from his brow and returns to the hive-in-progress.
Sometimes I am brave enought to enter hive building territory. Having been raised by a carpenter, I know only too well that it is unwise to come between a man and his work space, especially where wood is concerned. I think there is something in the sap that makes them go slightly mental. And NEVER offer advice. Offer tea. And cake. Nothing else.
Sometimes I am summoned to offer advice. Andy tells me the problem; he tells me what he thinks he ought to do. And I agree. This is the most tactful and reassuring form of advice to offer if you want to come out of the other side of the experience with your relationship intact.
Personally, I am very impressed that Andy has cracked on with the hive building with such gusto. When we arrived home, he said, 'I'm not going to build it today.' Which is okay. I think it's the correct form, when buying anything that needs constructing from series of parts, to leave the parts sitting in a heap for a week or so, in order that they may glower at you and intimidate you from the corner of the room, so any thought of simple construction goes clean out of the window and you end up convincing yourself you've got a major building problem on your hands.
But within a couple of hours construction is underway. And by the end of the day...
TA-DAH!! A beehive!!
Andy is convinced he has put it together completely wrong. I examine the hive. It looks like all the pictures in all the books we have amassed. It stays together. It doesn't wobble. If I was a bee, I'd live there. I might put up a few curtains and pictures and have a rug or two on the floor, but yes, I'd definitely live in Andy's new build, detached, attractive des res beehive.
And this morning, whilst I was scaring myself about how to examine the status of a queen cell in order to stop potential swarming, he built a brood frame!
It's all going very well.
Saturday, 3 April 2010
A Hive of Industry
This morning we went bee hive hunting. We were recommended a bee farm which sold all the equipment needed for beekeeping, and which turned out to be not in the place the address suggested.
'Oh, we moved from there,' said the bee people when we pitched up. 'But we liked the name, so we kept it.'
Never mind, we found them. But only because Andy realised he passed by the place every day on his way to work.
The bee people turned out to be very helpful. Having decided to build our own hive (and by 'we' I mean Andy), the bee people suggested two options - cedar or pine. Cedar is more expensive.
'But we've heard it will last longer,' said we.
'Oh yes,' said the bee people. 'A hive made from cedar will far outlive your beekeeping needs.'
Now did they mean 1) we looked like the kind of people who would give beekeeping a go then give up after a year thereby rendering the hive e-bay fodder or 2) that we looked like the kind of people who enjoyed cake a little too much and had about 10 years left in the pair of us max or 3) that cedar hives are extremely hardy and in 2,000 years, an archaeologist will unearth a strange box from the depths of our garden and say 'Hmmmm...National beehive; 2010 if I'm not mistaken'?
We liked to think the latter.
Anyway, we bought the bits for the hive - about 300 pieces of wood and 6,000 nails. We also bought a bee-brush, a hive tool, super frames, brood frames and a Clanger dressed in a suit of armour and carrying a rucksack, I mean a smoker. In a couple of weeks we shall return for bee-suits, inverted sugar, a feeder, a mouse guard and some rather nifty goat leather gauntlets.
Before we went on our way, the bee people gave us a jar of their home grown honey. 'Call us if you need any help, no matter how big or small,' they said. They are nice bee people.
Back home, Andy rigged up his Black and Decker in a manly way in my writing room, because the weather was proving a bit diverse for outside carpentry. He's building away now, as I type. I've left him to it. There's a lot of banging going on, a bit of muttering and occasional swearing as hammer hits thumb instead of nail. But so far, so good - the roof is made and the brood box near completion. I've played a game of 'Robo-Clanger Attacks Cats,' with Tybalt, Pandora and the smoker. The cats weren't impressed and are now sulking on the back of the sofa. It's Pandora's first birthday today; I think she really wanted to go to Chessington World of Adventure and have cake for afters.
Another beekeeping book arrived in the post whilst we were out. This is book number 4 in the Much Malarkey Manor Library Beekeeping section and you'd think they'd all say the same things, but they don't. And the more I read about bees, the more I think it is important to find out as much as you can about them as possible. They are not the kind of creatures you can sling out a couple of hives for and expect them to move in and get on with it. Of course, you mustn't interfere too much, but knowledge is important if you are to be a conscientious guardian of bees. You are, after all, responsible for their health and well-being all the time they are living with you. Bees are not easy; bees are complex. The more knowledge the better, that's what I say.
And it's all very fascinating. True life-long learning.
The bee people said, 'So you've got chickens, and soon you'll have bees. What's next?'
I put my finger to my lips. 'Quail,' I whispered. 'But don't tell Andy.'
'Oh, we moved from there,' said the bee people when we pitched up. 'But we liked the name, so we kept it.'
Never mind, we found them. But only because Andy realised he passed by the place every day on his way to work.
The bee people turned out to be very helpful. Having decided to build our own hive (and by 'we' I mean Andy), the bee people suggested two options - cedar or pine. Cedar is more expensive.
'But we've heard it will last longer,' said we.
'Oh yes,' said the bee people. 'A hive made from cedar will far outlive your beekeeping needs.'
Now did they mean 1) we looked like the kind of people who would give beekeeping a go then give up after a year thereby rendering the hive e-bay fodder or 2) that we looked like the kind of people who enjoyed cake a little too much and had about 10 years left in the pair of us max or 3) that cedar hives are extremely hardy and in 2,000 years, an archaeologist will unearth a strange box from the depths of our garden and say 'Hmmmm...National beehive; 2010 if I'm not mistaken'?
We liked to think the latter.
Anyway, we bought the bits for the hive - about 300 pieces of wood and 6,000 nails. We also bought a bee-brush, a hive tool, super frames, brood frames and a Clanger dressed in a suit of armour and carrying a rucksack, I mean a smoker. In a couple of weeks we shall return for bee-suits, inverted sugar, a feeder, a mouse guard and some rather nifty goat leather gauntlets.
Before we went on our way, the bee people gave us a jar of their home grown honey. 'Call us if you need any help, no matter how big or small,' they said. They are nice bee people.
Back home, Andy rigged up his Black and Decker in a manly way in my writing room, because the weather was proving a bit diverse for outside carpentry. He's building away now, as I type. I've left him to it. There's a lot of banging going on, a bit of muttering and occasional swearing as hammer hits thumb instead of nail. But so far, so good - the roof is made and the brood box near completion. I've played a game of 'Robo-Clanger Attacks Cats,' with Tybalt, Pandora and the smoker. The cats weren't impressed and are now sulking on the back of the sofa. It's Pandora's first birthday today; I think she really wanted to go to Chessington World of Adventure and have cake for afters.
Another beekeeping book arrived in the post whilst we were out. This is book number 4 in the Much Malarkey Manor Library Beekeeping section and you'd think they'd all say the same things, but they don't. And the more I read about bees, the more I think it is important to find out as much as you can about them as possible. They are not the kind of creatures you can sling out a couple of hives for and expect them to move in and get on with it. Of course, you mustn't interfere too much, but knowledge is important if you are to be a conscientious guardian of bees. You are, after all, responsible for their health and well-being all the time they are living with you. Bees are not easy; bees are complex. The more knowledge the better, that's what I say.
And it's all very fascinating. True life-long learning.
The bee people said, 'So you've got chickens, and soon you'll have bees. What's next?'
I put my finger to my lips. 'Quail,' I whispered. 'But don't tell Andy.'
Friday, 2 April 2010
The Bees, the bees
So yesterday I placed an order for our first colony of bees. I have been doing much voracious reading about bees this week, which means I have been able to distance myself from the horrors of teaching. And I have come to the conclusion that bees are far more intelligent and interesting than many of the students I deal with. The future, it seems, is orange - with a few black stripes thrown in for good measure.
But hurrah! Two weeks of Easter break are upon me, and I can concentrate on important stuff like gathering beekeeping equipment and sorting out the allotment and garden. And being constantly amazed at the speed with which my rocket seedlings are sprouting on the kitchen window sill.
The bees are being collected somewhere around the end of May. This is good. This gives us time to get well into the one-to-one beekeeping course we have signed up for. And source the equipment we need. I am especially keen to investigate smokers because they look like Clangers in suits of armour. And as I write this, Andy is in the garden with his new Black and Decker practising sawing up wood and making basic joints (of wood, I hope. I shall be cross if I go out later and find him lying in the middle of Cluckinghen Palace in a drug induced stupor. 'So will we,' says Mrs Miggins. 'We'll have none of that malarkey here.')
As Olly commented a blog or two ago, if Andy is getting interested in carpentry, he can make a hive. I suggested this to him. Build your own hive kits are cheaper than ready built hives.
'Everyone says they are easy to make,' said I.
'Everyone?' said Andy.
'Well, Olly,' I said.
'I'll have a go, then,' said Andy, because he could detect a glint in mine own eye that suggested if he didn't, then I would.
'And you're a surgeon,' I said. 'If you can repair the shattered leg of dog, you can construct a beehive kit.'
'Remember that I have managed to staple myself to a dog before now,' said Andy.
'We all have our off days,' I said.
So this weekend, in between feeding my need to watch a Biblical epic or two, we shall be pootling around the countryside gathering beekeeping equipment.
Also, a tree surgeon came out to peruse our enormous eucalyptus tree. I liked him. He said, 'I see you keep chickens. Just the three, is it?'
'Yes,' I said, and regaled him with the sad demise of Mrs Poo. 'But she was a bit of a Stalin,' I finished. 'And taught the others some very bad habits.'
'I worked my way up to 180 chickens at one stage,' said the tree surgeon. 'But I'm back to three now. And four ducks.'
I didn't like to ask how he got from 180 chickens to 3. But I liked that he kept chickens and ducks. And that he did some teaching too. And that his wife was a teacher until she got fed up with it, and is now a paramedic which, he said, was far less stressful. Now that tells you something doesn't it? That people would rather deal with blood, guts, sick and poo than the youth of today.
Anyway, I digress. The tree surgeon quoted me far less to remove the tree than I was charged two years ago by another tree surgeon just to top out the same tree.
'How much did you pay?' he said, when I expressed surprise (pleasant) at his quote.
'You were robbed,' he said, when I told him. 'I'd have charged you less than half of that.'
'Don't tell me that now,' I said.
And we had a bit of a laugh and rolled our eyes at the unscrupulous behaviour of some tree surgeons.
So the tree will be dealt with by the time the bees arrive. The biggest parts will be left with us as logs for building, whittling, perching etc. And the stump will remain in the South Wing of Cluckinghen Palace as Mrs Miggins has requested a new seating area.
'It will be like a Round Table,' she said, squinting her eyes in a visionary moment. 'And I shall be King Arthur.'
'And I shall be Sir Laughalot with a big sword called Eggscaliber,' said Mrs Slocombe.
'You'll do as you're told,' said Mrs Miggins.
Andy is amassing a list of garden related woodworking projects he intends to build. Starting with a bird box, and a beehive, he plans then to move on to various assorted pergolas, mini-greenhouses,, herb troughs, cold frames, and then a massive revamp of Cluckinghen Palace.
'I think we should add a conservatory,' he said. 'So the hens can have the effect of being outside whilst undercover on wet days.'
This is a good idea. Especially as there is no more pathetic sight than a damp chicken. And it means their dustbath would stay dry rather than being reduced to a soggy quagmire every two weeks or so.
Also, and do not breathe a word of this to Andy, this revamp could be adapted to include my next livestock keeping plan which is quail. Quail are tiny. They wouldn't take up much space.
But don't tell Andy.
But hurrah! Two weeks of Easter break are upon me, and I can concentrate on important stuff like gathering beekeeping equipment and sorting out the allotment and garden. And being constantly amazed at the speed with which my rocket seedlings are sprouting on the kitchen window sill.
The bees are being collected somewhere around the end of May. This is good. This gives us time to get well into the one-to-one beekeeping course we have signed up for. And source the equipment we need. I am especially keen to investigate smokers because they look like Clangers in suits of armour. And as I write this, Andy is in the garden with his new Black and Decker practising sawing up wood and making basic joints (of wood, I hope. I shall be cross if I go out later and find him lying in the middle of Cluckinghen Palace in a drug induced stupor. 'So will we,' says Mrs Miggins. 'We'll have none of that malarkey here.')
As Olly commented a blog or two ago, if Andy is getting interested in carpentry, he can make a hive. I suggested this to him. Build your own hive kits are cheaper than ready built hives.
'Everyone says they are easy to make,' said I.
'Everyone?' said Andy.
'Well, Olly,' I said.
'I'll have a go, then,' said Andy, because he could detect a glint in mine own eye that suggested if he didn't, then I would.
'And you're a surgeon,' I said. 'If you can repair the shattered leg of dog, you can construct a beehive kit.'
'Remember that I have managed to staple myself to a dog before now,' said Andy.
'We all have our off days,' I said.
So this weekend, in between feeding my need to watch a Biblical epic or two, we shall be pootling around the countryside gathering beekeeping equipment.
Also, a tree surgeon came out to peruse our enormous eucalyptus tree. I liked him. He said, 'I see you keep chickens. Just the three, is it?'
'Yes,' I said, and regaled him with the sad demise of Mrs Poo. 'But she was a bit of a Stalin,' I finished. 'And taught the others some very bad habits.'
'I worked my way up to 180 chickens at one stage,' said the tree surgeon. 'But I'm back to three now. And four ducks.'
I didn't like to ask how he got from 180 chickens to 3. But I liked that he kept chickens and ducks. And that he did some teaching too. And that his wife was a teacher until she got fed up with it, and is now a paramedic which, he said, was far less stressful. Now that tells you something doesn't it? That people would rather deal with blood, guts, sick and poo than the youth of today.
Anyway, I digress. The tree surgeon quoted me far less to remove the tree than I was charged two years ago by another tree surgeon just to top out the same tree.
'How much did you pay?' he said, when I expressed surprise (pleasant) at his quote.
'You were robbed,' he said, when I told him. 'I'd have charged you less than half of that.'
'Don't tell me that now,' I said.
And we had a bit of a laugh and rolled our eyes at the unscrupulous behaviour of some tree surgeons.
So the tree will be dealt with by the time the bees arrive. The biggest parts will be left with us as logs for building, whittling, perching etc. And the stump will remain in the South Wing of Cluckinghen Palace as Mrs Miggins has requested a new seating area.
'It will be like a Round Table,' she said, squinting her eyes in a visionary moment. 'And I shall be King Arthur.'
'And I shall be Sir Laughalot with a big sword called Eggscaliber,' said Mrs Slocombe.
'You'll do as you're told,' said Mrs Miggins.
Andy is amassing a list of garden related woodworking projects he intends to build. Starting with a bird box, and a beehive, he plans then to move on to various assorted pergolas, mini-greenhouses,, herb troughs, cold frames, and then a massive revamp of Cluckinghen Palace.
'I think we should add a conservatory,' he said. 'So the hens can have the effect of being outside whilst undercover on wet days.'
This is a good idea. Especially as there is no more pathetic sight than a damp chicken. And it means their dustbath would stay dry rather than being reduced to a soggy quagmire every two weeks or so.
Also, and do not breathe a word of this to Andy, this revamp could be adapted to include my next livestock keeping plan which is quail. Quail are tiny. They wouldn't take up much space.
But don't tell Andy.
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