All Bee Quiet

Queen Olga (part one swarm), in the top bar hive, is laying beautiful swathes of eggs. Her worker ladies are making beautiful swathes of free-form comb. They are still ignoring the foundation we put in for them, so we took it out. Well, I suppose it's the difference between building your own house to your own likings and specification and being shoved into a housing estate house that looks like a million other housing estate houses.

Queen Philibert, artificial swarm hive, is laying great swathes of eggs. Her workers are making great swathes of stores and drawing out frames of wax and between them have nearly filled the brood box so will likely be ready for a super in the next two weeks.

Queen April 21st (part two swarm) has started laying. Two sides of gloriously smooth brood. Her court is still small but it's like having a nucleus, so we hold out much hope for her building up well for her first Winter. Also, she is a rather magnificent looking Queen, today being the first time we've actually spotted her - she's redder than the other Queens, and has a very long and pointy body. She is, what you might call, very OBVIOUS. We may have to rename her Mae West.

We took the original hive to the out-apiary today. This is the hive we thought had two Queens, then no Queens. This is the hive that was being very noisy and very angry, which made us think both Queens had done a bunk. We were just getting to the point of 'do we buy in a new Queen or do we re-unite it with Queen April's gang?'when the noisiness abated, and an air of calmness settled.

With some trepidation we set the hive in its new home and opened it. The bees were calm. The hive was full. The super that we'd emptied honey from was being refilled. The second super will likely be filled by the end of this season. So more honey spinning in the offing.

And there, look, in the middle of the hive - patches of brood! And larvae!!

So, although we didn't see a Queen, because looking for an unmarked Queen in a full hive is like, well, looking for an unmarked Queen in a full hive, she must have been there in the last few days, unless some itinerant larvae minstrels happened to wander past and booked themselves in for a few days for a festival or something. And the Queen shall be known as Queen Enigma the Elusive of Conundrum. Until we see her, then we'll call her Eureka!

Back in January, when it looked like our bees were going to make it safely through their first Winter, we said 'Maybe this year we'll try an artificial swarm so we'll have two hives.'

My, how we laugh about that now!!

And then, after performing the artificial swarm and being caught out by a natural swarm, and the uncertainty of Queen or no Queen in the original hive, we thought, well, if the original hive doesn't make it at least we'll have a spare hive for next year and won't have to race around like idiots because we haven't got enough equipment.

We laugh about that one, too!!

As it is, all hives are getting in with the job in hand.

Fingers crossed!

Personal Statement

The worst bit about applying for jobs is having to write a 'personal statement'. About your person. And why you are a suitable applicant for the job on offer.

It's simple for, say, chickens.

'I am a chicken. I lay eggs, I eat bugs, I run up and down the garden in an amusing way.'

Therefore, prospective chicken employers will see that a) the chicken will earn her keep b) she will get rid of slugs (especially appealing if, like me, you are a slug-phobic) and c) cause high entertainment whilst carrying out boring tasks like washing up and staring idly from the kitchen window.

And bees...

'I am a bee. I get up early and work all day and go to bed late and make honey which is the best thing on fresh bread toast and butter.'

Even cats...

'I am a cat. I sleep mostly. I am affectionate. I can do entertaining yoga poses whilst cleaning my nethers.'

But what about me, about to fling herself back into full-time teaching? Oh, it was a tricky but inevitable decision based on the simple fact I need a job for September. The tutoring has been FAB, but the end is in sight. My current school is being vague about the potential of jobs for me there, and vague doesn't pay the bills. I need to find something solid.
'Like a rock?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'If you like,' says I.
And the only posts available at the moment are either full-time or maternity cover (there seem to be a lot of English and Drama teachers going off on maternity leave in the next couple of months - must be something in the local water).

So, here I am, filling in one form after another. And, of course, you can't do the same personal statement for each application, because you have to 'tailor' them to fit the post's particular criteria. They also have to be riddled with jargon and edu-speak, the kind that reflects an understanding of the latest pedagogic theories. (Although a good friend of mine, a wise and experienced teacher of thirty-plus years, says the hub of education is all about re-inventing the wheel. She's seen the same 'innovative' ideas being recycled under different names time and time again - it's very comforting to know that nothing really changes it just wears different flared trousers!)

Personal statements can go on forever. They can be miniature works of literary art. Sometimes, when you've written one, you read it back to yourself and can't understand a word you've said. Sometimes I am very impressed with myself - I think, I'd employ me. Other times I sound like a desperate mad woman who collects cats...oh...er...well....

Luckily, I have been offered references by five different colleagues, so hopefully they will say a lot about me that I can't, because I'm not very good at blowing my own trumpet. In fact, I don't even have a trumpet. A flute and a keyboard, but pas de trumpet.

In the meantime, I wish the statement could be as simple as the new sofa we bought yesterday to be employed in our newly decorated living room - 'Sofa, medium. Squishy. Aubergine. Fuzzy fabric. Lush. Fifteen percent off.'

In fact, that's a brilliant idea! Personal statements should be restricted to ten words.

Hmmm...'Creative, good-humoured, organised, reliable teacher wants a job. Please.'

That should do it!

N.B

It has suddenly occurred to me that as many people from beyond the land of England read this blog, some of you may be bemused by the posting about Mrs Pumphrey's latest hat acquisition.

If I say 'Royal Wedding' and 'Princess Beatrice' and maybe 'antlers' and 'wild circles' and 'slapped on the front of her forehead like a martian' and 'google it' and 'e-bay' and 'whoever told her that was a good idea?' then that might be clue enough.

If it isn't, then hurrah for you having saved your eyes from the horror of the hat, and my advice is best to keep it that way!

'How rude!' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'It's a lovely hat!'

'You have been picking up Radio 5 Live on it all afternoon,' I say.

'An added bonus,' sniffs Mrs Pumphrey.

And there shall end the saga of the hat.

Mrs Pumphrey's New Hat

Mrs Pumphrey, as you know, is a connoisseur of all things millinery. She has a collection of hats - short ones, tall ones, some as big as your head - that would put Imelda Marcos to shame. If Imelda Marcos collected hats, not shoes. You get the analogy.
I've asked Mrs Pumphrey where her passion for hats came from. She says she reckons it's genetic, that she inherited it from her great-great- grandmother, Mrs Gloria Swanson Albertina Teacake Henpike, who was a lady-who-lunched back in the1880's and made all her gentlemen beaus buy her a hat before buying her lunch, because everyone knows that back then 'a lady hen was never observed in public with her comb swaying in the breeze.' (Mrs Pumphrey laughs whenever she tells me this, because apparently it's a little known quotation of Oscar Wilde's and was deemed quite risque in its day; personally, I can't see the joke, but then I'm getting quite prudish in my middle-age.)
Anyway, such is Mrs Pumphrey's hat collection that a special room has been built at Cluckinghen Palace to accommodate them. It's called 'The Hattery' and it's quite mad. Only les- chapeaus- du-saison are on display at any onw time. The rest are stored in cupboards, and every 1st of January, April, July and October there is a great hat kerfuffle as the old seasonal display is packed away in fresh tissue paper, and the new seasonal display is brought out of storage, dusted, hoovered and set upon the display stands.
Now, for the last week, Mrs Pumphrey has been watching her i-pad like a hawk, which is like a chicken only with a better head for heights. Every time I wander past to have a look at what she's doing (I like to think I keep a close eye on what the hens are up to on the interwebbly, just in case they are being groomed for a roast dinner or chicken chasseur) she covers the screen with her wing and gives me the evil hen eye.
'What are you doing?' I said.
'Watching my items on Eggbay,' said she.
'Any particular items?' I said.
'Not that it's any of your business,' said she, 'but a rather fine hat.'
So, two days ago, a massive shriek went up, and there was a great galloping around in excitement which I took to be a sign that either a) she'd won her hat on Eggbay or b) she'd been stung up her end by a wasp.
And yesterday, hat a arrived.
It was a beige hat. A tall, beige hat. Looked like a pretzel on its side. It looked rather familar.
'Have I seen this hat somewhere before?' I said.
'You may have,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'It has been on telly recently. On a rather famous head.
Oh-oh, I thought.
'Can I ask how much you paid for this monstrosity...I mean, hat?' I said.
'No,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'Besides, the money doesn't matter.'
'Doesn't it?' I said, thinking about me trying to find new job for September.
'No,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'It's the art what counts.'
Well, it was the best laugh I'd had all day.
And now, this 'hat' is on display in The Hattery, which is, as I said earlier, quite mad. And frankly, the best place for it.

Formation Flying

It's been very windy here today - of the weather variety, I hasten to add; nothing to do with beans and cabbage - and on my return home, I potter into the back garden to check for wind damage.

The net shade for the greenhouse had come adrift for starters, and a couple of the taller herbs were looking a bit wind-blown. But other than that, all was well.

'My feathers are all asunder,' says Mrs Pumphrey, who is a big chicken and therefore makes a big and highly effective wind-break.
'True,' I say. 'But nothing a set of feather straighteners can't put right.'
'Humph,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'That's all well and good except Mrs Slocombe has my feather straighteners, and I can't think they are going to be fit for purpose once she's finished with them.'
'I dread to ask, ' I say, 'but what exactly is Mrs Slocombe doing with your feather straighteners?'
'She's ironing her home-made tagiatelle,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'She put the crimping attachment on the pasta machine...'
'Ravioli?'
'And you... and her strands have come out wonky...'
'Right,' I say, because of course I understand fully what's occurring in a chicken's brain, especially the one that belongs to Mrs Slocombe.

Anyway, I meander up the back of the garden to observe the goings on in the top bar hive.It's been very busy in the top bar - I think Queen Olga must be running a very tight ship in there - and activity has been on the rapid increase since the swarm.

But what is this? I say to myself. Not an incoming bee to be seen. Oh no! Well, you can imagine what I thought, and it was with swear words, too.

And just as I was well into having a good huff 'n' puff about bloomin' bees, there approaches from the right hand side of the garden a bunch of bees, altogether in a..well...bunch... and they enter the top bar with their enormous trousers. And then there is nothing...and then there is another bunch of bees...and then there is nothing... and then there is a bunch of...

'Yes, yes, get on with it!' snaps Mrs Pumphrey.

It seems, and I could be wrong about this, but it definitely seems that because of the gusty wind, the bees are coming in to land in little groups, rather than their usual individual fashion. Like geese flocking together on flights, to cut down on wind drag - safety in number and all that.

Can that happen? Do bees work like that? I imagine it's quite difficult being a little, light and not very aerodynamic insect buffeted by the wind and trying to aim for a small hive entrance. P'raps the collective approach helps with aim and approach and aero-dynamics? (Is it aero-dynamics? I'm not a very scientific person, as you know.)

But if that is what they are doing - formation wind flying - then bees are more clever than I originally thought.

And you already know how clever I think bees are.

'Yes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'You do bang on about it somewhat.'

'Oh shush,' I say. 'Go and straighten your feathers.'

Wind's Up

We had a heavy rainfall this morning, thank heavens, because it's the first proper rain we've seen in weeks and the allotment was beginning to suffer. All was well if we managed to get there every day to do watering, but we both work fullish time and it's not always possible, though we do try hard. And it's been times like this that a) we wish we had a big old garden that we didn't have to make the effort to travel to and b) we're glad we haven't got more than an allotment and a little garden to deal with because it would be a nightmare trying to keep anything bigger well-tended and watered. But we've had our first pound of strawberries, some rocket, some beetroot and the rhubarb is still going strong, so I guess the constant sunshine has its compensations.

Anyhow, the wind is up, too, and has bought with it, a la Mary Poppins, some job possibilities. It's typical, isn't it? You fret for ages about being out of work, then three or four opportunities come along at once, leaving you making lists of pros and cons for each one and listening to the opinions of others and hoping that perhaps your premium bonds will come good next month (but why break the habit of the last 13 years??) and save you the angst of having to make a decision. Actually, I have promised the Universe that if I ever win a substantial sum of money, I shall give half of it to charity. I've written a list of 5 of my favourites, and the sum I need to win in order to implement the universal bargain, which means I probably won't be able to give up work completely, but might at least be allowed to indulge in different work that doesn't have the Devil of the Mortgage as a considering driving force.

Today has been spent clearing the living room of furniture ready for the decorator who starts tomorrow. The cats are wandering around in a state of echoey confusion, wondering where to sit for their evening's TV viewing. So I've scattered some cushions on the floor for them, which they are begrudgingly plomping themselves upon. I hate to tell them, but this could be the status quo for a couple of weeks yet, because we also ordered a new carpet this morning and I don't feel inclined to hoik sofas from the living room only to hoik them back when the decorator has finished (hopefully Wednesday), then hoik them back out again for the carpet fitter whenever he deigns fit to arrive in the next ten days or so-ish.

Actually, it's quite nice sitting here on the rug, furnitureless save for a TV and a laptop. Minimalist, I think it's called. Perhaps bean-bags are the order of the day.

In the Pink

'Don't go for pink. You said you weren't going for pink because it would be a bad, oppressive colour to choose. You said it. I know you did. I have written proof. I know you've just spent the best part of an hour walking the aisles of B & Q holding a piece of wallpaper against the paint samples that were so high in the air that you got back ache and neck ache and arm ache, and that it would have been quicker just to grab a tin of white and have done with it, but I just want to remind you that you went in looking for a subtle shade of green, not pink...GREEN!'

'Okay, in my defence, I didn't go all out on a rash branch moment and buy pink immediately; I did bring home three samples to test first, didn't I, and one of those was a subtle shade of green, Mellow Sage, which turned out not to be so subtle or mellow after all, more like 'Mouldy Moss.' And the second one was 'Antique Cream' which looked white and the third one, I'd like to point out, is NOT pink, it's 'La Petite Maison - Lavender.' Not pink.'

'But when you look at it, now the sample's on the wall, be honest, does it look like lavender? You know, like the lavender in the front garden? Sort of...lavendery?'

'It looks...well...yes, sort of lavendery...'

'In a 'pinkish' sort of way?'

'Well, possibly. In a certain light...'

'In the light of, say, the sun coming through the living room window when the curtains are open?'

'Look, it says 'Lavender' on the tin and it goes with the wallpaper a treat, so 'Lavender' it is and Andy is buying two tins of it during his lunch-break so it's too late now so shut up, Sub-conscious Mind. I'm allowed to change my mind, aren't I?'

'No. You said green and you got pink...'

'Lavender...'

'Lavender schmavender. You'll regret it when you're sitting in the living room feeling like you've been swallowed up by a massive ball of candy floss.'

'Shut up. It's not THAT pink. It's subtle...like...like...'

'Green?'

'I'm not listening to you. Tra-la-la-la-la!'