MyMan and I are in a power battle at the moment over whether or not to keep the LazyBeeChair – the reclining chair we found at the block, whose hollows are filled with a buzzing mass of bees and honey.
He has no interest in bees or the potential for stings and yet I’ve always dreamed of my own hive, ever since our aging neighbor Uncle Cec used to let me lay down on the concrete under the honey-press in his shed and he’d press the honey right into my open mouth. Apparently I’d go home with my foot-long locks stuck out like Pippi Longstocking.
So my compromise is to smoke up the LazyBeeChair, drugging its residents so I can haul it into my garden where – I keep assuring MyMan – its busy little pollinators will ensure the success of the orchard and our vegies. I will even have the help of a local apiarist, smoker in hand.
In the meantime, I just have to make sure neither the current owner, the scrapmetal guy or MyMan take it into their heads to ‘deal with’ our little insect ‘problem’. Do you think it is counter to my long-term purpose for me to keep mentioning anaphylactic shock?
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