It all started last week during a long afternoon at the day job. We’re working from home permanently now and after a while there was a strange noise that could be heard in our spare room/incredibly makeshift office.
At first I thought I was imagining it. Long hours spent tappity-tap-tapping away at a keyboard in an empty house can do that to you.
Could it be coming from daughter #2’s absolute midden of a bedroom? A fly jamboree on a half eaten snack left by her bed from a month ago? Entirely plausible in that pigsty, but no.
A quick peek outside revealed a load of big fat bumble bees who’d set up their own AirBee’n’Bee in an air vent. This week’s joke. Right there. Hope you enjoyed it.
A pest control expert came round to have a look and reassured us bumble bees do no damage, will leave us well alone and will be away in a month or so.
He said to think of them as tipsy young lads doing their best dancing in a doomed but energetic attempt to impress the most beautiful woman in a nightclub. But there could be up to 300 of them before long. Our sighthound Walter tries to catch these sky jalapeños. If successful, he will never attempt something so stupid ever again as his lips swell like a bad filler job.
So apart from having to vacate the office because there’s a noisy party of bees on an insect version of a stag weekend to Magaluf everything’s okay, apart from the birds.
Our two rescue cats are champion mousers, to the point that when our main office had a furry infestation a few years ago I considered offering their services.
They think they earn their keep by leaving sacred offerings for us at the back door. Sometimes of a morning it looks like a Fisher-Price My First Voodoo Ceremony set.
Last week they brought us a dead bird.
Which was left to yours truly to bury. Good work, fellas.
Because we all need saving from birds, don’t we?