The Bee Removal Dance

The only acceptable bee is a crochet one! By syppah.

It was a beautiful [it wasn’t actually that’s a complete lie] spring afternoon in South East England. The air was warm [muggy] and a light breeze was blowing our heroine’s hair back and forth [I looked like a Tim Burton character after five goddamn minutes – all that time and hairspray for nothing. NOTHING.] as she walked.

The path she had chosen to take to a friend’s house was straight and quiet, a way to cut between two main roads [there was a broken down bus stopped half way down, so I had to walk past the dull, lifeless glares of the stranded passengers]. Having forgotten her headphones [because I’m a twot] she found herself content to listen to the far away sounds of children playing [screaming] and homeowners relishing the good weather to work on their front gardens [two of them where arguing about who’d used the lawnmower last because it was mysteriously broken now].

Her walk was an ordinary one, her steps slow [I have this weird thing where I have to leave once I’m ready because I get nervous if I wait around and so I spend most journeys killing time halfway there so I’m not too early] and relaxed. That is, until she neared the end of her route.

A large house stood on the corner of the road’s end. A brightly painted home with a clearly well maintained garden that ran in a large circle around the outside. A neat line of hedgerows separated the land from the footpath, but over the top of them you could see all the flowers the owners had done well to encourage.

Our heroine was happy [still twenty minutes early bloody hell] to pause and admire such fine work, until she looked down. Upon her arm [bare arm!] sat a large bee. After a moment spent frozen, during which her brain caught up with the situation [ohshit ohmygod bee beeonme whyisn’titmoving? whatdoesitwant? ahh], she moved her arm slightly in hopes the bee would take flight once more.

It did not. Clearly, more drastic measures would be needed if she was to remove her new friend without being stung.

Unbeknownst to our heroine, the bus she had encountered a few minutes before was back on the road, the driver thankful for a mechanic so close by and a solution to the problem that didn’t involve transferring vehicles. As he drove along he happened to glance to his left…

Where a strange young woman appeared to be bouncing up and down, waving her arms in the air.

Peering over the dashboard, he slowed the bus as he neared the junction that linked to the next main road. As he passed, he considered stopping altogether, his fingers on the button that would open the passenger doors.

From outside the bus our heroine let out a final, resounding cry;

“Get the hell off me you ridiculous bastard!”

At which point he considered the duty of care to his passengers, who having also heard the cry pressed against the windows to see the woman who had walked by earlier, now breathing heavily, glaring into the sky as they moved on.

The bee had flown away, leaving her to deal with the realisation that not only had she shouted at it – but that she had been dancing, deranged, in full view of a crowded bus.

Upon reaching her friend’s house and being questioned on her state [wild hair, red face, rumpled t-shirt] she told the story of the bee and the bus. To which her friend responded by laughing at her, and suggesting she write about it.

So she did.

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I was walking to a mate’s, minding my own business, when I became the victim of an unprovoked attack! Bad times. :<