1) London cabbies love to listen to talk radio. They love it. Football, politics, recipes, world news; it's all good, dawg.
Know why?
So they can then retail that information to their passengers over the course of the day. It's like instant conversation magic dust...sprinkle some into a cab and there will be some conversation. The cabbie I met yesterday, however, wins the award for Telling Me Something That Will Give Me Nightmares. Outright.
Cabbie: (as we pass some roadworks) Lots of building work going on in the City at the moment, love. Lots.
Me: (dicking about with my phone, not really listening) Oh yes?
Cabbie: Yeerrrrrs. They've been demolishing this big building. Right in the City. Right in the middle. Can't use dynamite on it though. Too many buildings around. Too crowded.
Me: No? Tsk tsk tsk.
Cabbie: (warming to his theme) Yeah...know what they used to demolish it? Instead of dynamite?
Me: Um. No. (expectant pause) What?
Cabbie: A giant machine that ATE it. Like a huge dinosaur, with HUGE jaws. Just ate all the way down the building till it was gone. (Makes "giant machine eating a building" gestures with both hands - luckily we are stopped at a traffic light for this.)
Me: (Listening properly now) What? A machine that eats buildings? That sounds terrifying!
Cabbie: Yeah, like a giant dinosaur. The pressure in those jaws must be immense. Immense. Can you imagine? Eating the whole building, concrete, steel, the lot.
Me: (imagining all too clearly) Christ, yes.
So thanks for that, Mr steel-jaw dinosaur man.
2) Many people are no respectors of an injured woman's slowness. I am trying to walk further now, but I am still struggling, particularly at the end of the day when my ankle has swollen up like a fleshy grapefruit, and I am limping like some sort of unconvincing ham actor auditioning for the Hunchback of Notre Dame. And, I have discovered, when you are limping along slowly, for example across the concourse at Waterloo Station, heading for your train, people are really rude.
Bastards!
So far this week I have been tutted at, jostled and asked to "step aside please" to allow a fat sweaty man with too many bags to waddle down the platform three steps ahead of me. I had the last laugh, however. Being a wily long-term commuter, I simply hopped onto the other end of the carriage he was aiming for and made my way quickly to the prime spot in the middle, leaving him to take the scabby seat by the door where everyone whacks you with their luggage as they come in and out. Ha.
3) People have no idea how to dress for the weather at the moment. Today, for example, I have seen people wearing the following:
flipflops
shorts
t shirts
overcoats
fleecy jackets
jeans
opaque woollen tights
scarves
summer dresses
formal suits
sarongs
Many of the people wearing those outfits were also carrying umbrellas. Either the weather or our fashion sense is playing cruel tricks on us.
Tomorrow is a work at home day for me. I intend to listen to Planet Rock, limp around the house as slowly as I please, and wear pyjamas all day.
Take that, society.
Showing posts with label taxi drivers with busy lives. Show all posts
Showing posts with label taxi drivers with busy lives. Show all posts
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
Expensive lesson
I was up in London yesterday, as I usually am on a Tuesday. Well, they expect me to turn up at the office, seeing that they pay me and all. The train journey was surprisingly pleasant, the air conditioning has been working during the last few days of "warm spell" weather, so it's been comfortable*.
As an aside, I overheard two of the train staff chatting the other day. One of them was telling the other: "When it's too cold, everything breaks. When it's too hot, everything breaks. Just accept it."
Anyhoo. I managed to get half an hour of not-too-interrupted snoozing, so was in a good mood when I got to Waterloo. I strolled down the platform, and on impulse decided to get a cab to the office. It was a nice day, the Tube was bound to be stinky, stuffy and hellish, and I couldn't be arsed to walk. I had a new pair of sandals on and was keen not to get blisters early in the day**.
There was an unusually long queue at the taxi rank. I joined it, waiting for it to be my turn to do the "Which number do I stand next to?" dance. I love that. People who are unfamiliar with the system stand stupidly at the head of the queue, glaring at those who walk past them to the numbers further along the rank, completely missing the fact that they ought to be doing the same thing. Fools.
Anyway. My turn came, I hopped into a cab with a nice young cabbie, and we set off for Victoria. It's about a mile and a half, and usually takes about 10 minutes in a taxi, and costs about £6. Now that I am bringing my lunch to work I feel that paying for a taxi is allowable, as I am not spending the equivalent of Ghana's GDP in Marks and Spencer on sandwiches, socks and cardigans***.
Now, apart from it being one of my In The Office days, what else was happening on Tuesday? Hmm? That's right. The State Opening of Parliament, one of our many rich, ancient traditions, beloved by all.
Beloved by all, except taxi drivers. And bus drivers. And anyone trying to drive around South London, actually.
The police had closed Westminster Bridge, so the cabbie apologised and said he'd go via Lambeth Bridge. American readers (in fact, anyone who doesn't know that part of London) may wish to get a map and draw a thick red line along the route we took, possibly using a crayon.
We inched painfully along the south bank of the Thames, nose to tail in a dreadful traffic jam. Eventually we got to the roundabout at Lambeth Bridge. The cabbie was looking anxious, and as we drove onto the roundabout he said "I don't fucking believe it!"
Me: What?
Cabbie: I'm really sorry about the language, love, but they've closed the fucking bridge!
Me: Fuck!
Cabbie: I know! Fuck it!
Me: So where can we go?
Cabbie: Hmmmm, I could try getting along to Vauxhall Bridge...what do you think?
Me: I have no idea....I'm not very familiar with London. (Which is why I am paying you to get me where I want to go, Cockney poltroon.)
That last bit in brackets was in my head, by the way.
We crept along another half a mile, still nose to tail in the traffic, sucking up thick clouds of bus fumes, cyclists and scooters weaving in and out around us. I watched the meter glumly. It clicked past the £10 mark and we were still a loooooooong way from Victoria. If I'd had any kind of idea where we were I would probably have hopped out and taken my chances walking the rest of the way, but I know what I am like. I'd have been lost, lost, hopelessly lost within moments. And probably either fallen in the Thames or down a hole in the road, never to be seen again.
I wish I was kidding.
The cabbie swore fluently and quietly under his breath, in between engaging me in cheerful chat about how shocking the traffic was. We made it to Vauxhall Bridge, sweeping across it at 5 miles an hour, then headed into the quieter roads heading up to Victoria Street. There were, of course, roadworks on several of the routes we took, making the cabbie perform U-turns and unexpected diversions. He apologised each time, suggesting that I might in fact prefer to go back to Waterloo and just go home.
Reader, I was tempted.
We eventually got to Rochester Row, and as he turned the cab into the street, he had to stop to allow two shaven-headed men to saunter across the road. Neither of them made any effort to speed up, or get out of the way, or even acknowledge that they were holding up traffic. I know pedestrians have right of way, but the were deliberately being dicks. And they got dickier.
The cabbie shouted, "Don't worry mate, I'll just drive on the pavement, shall I?"
I thought it was a mildly amusing bit of banter. I expected a similar riposte from the two road-crossing guys, maybe a V-sign, or similar. But no.
The older of the two stopped dead in front of the cab and yelled at the top of his voice: "Get out of that fucking cab! Get out here right now! Fucking get out of that fucking cab! Come on!" His mate stood beside him, also red-faced and belligerent, obviously enjoying being part of the unfolding drama.
The driver declined.
We drove around the purple-faced yelling nutcase and his simian companion and continued on our way, somewhat chagrined. Finally, after what felt like about a week, I spotted Victoria Street away in the distance, the other side of yet another building-site roadblock, and asked the driver to drop me off so I could walk the rest of the way. He agreed, although I did see him check the mirrors to make sure the mad shouty man wasn't running after us before he stopped.
He apologised again and again for the time it had taken to get almost to where I wanted to go. I said it was alright, he'd done his best. The cabbie suggested that the State Opening of Parliament should be a Bank Holiday. I nodded politely, but secretly thought that might be a bit excessive for everyone who isn't affected by the traffic chaos. Which would be everyone NOT in South London.
Anyway. I paid the taxi fare. £28. Twenty Eight Pounds. It had taken 55 minutes and cost me the price of a nice Chinese, but I had made it to work. Nearly. Plus I was almost involved in a huge fight.
When I got to my desk, half an hour late, people asked me how my journey had been. "Oh, fine," I lied.
Other news: I have lost another pound. It is slow, but mostly steady, and I have had several people at work say "You look nice today!" and then "Have you lost some weight?" which is very encouraging.
Mr WithaY is being supportive, in his own manner. I mentioned to him that I was wearing new knickers, a size smaller than my other ones. He looked at me fondly and said "Oh? I wondered what that squeaking noise was."
*As comfortable as it ever is on the Sardine Express
**Also, I am lazy
***You know how it is. You pop in for some lunch and come out with an outfit. And lunch.
As an aside, I overheard two of the train staff chatting the other day. One of them was telling the other: "When it's too cold, everything breaks. When it's too hot, everything breaks. Just accept it."
Anyhoo. I managed to get half an hour of not-too-interrupted snoozing, so was in a good mood when I got to Waterloo. I strolled down the platform, and on impulse decided to get a cab to the office. It was a nice day, the Tube was bound to be stinky, stuffy and hellish, and I couldn't be arsed to walk. I had a new pair of sandals on and was keen not to get blisters early in the day**.
There was an unusually long queue at the taxi rank. I joined it, waiting for it to be my turn to do the "Which number do I stand next to?" dance. I love that. People who are unfamiliar with the system stand stupidly at the head of the queue, glaring at those who walk past them to the numbers further along the rank, completely missing the fact that they ought to be doing the same thing. Fools.
Anyway. My turn came, I hopped into a cab with a nice young cabbie, and we set off for Victoria. It's about a mile and a half, and usually takes about 10 minutes in a taxi, and costs about £6. Now that I am bringing my lunch to work I feel that paying for a taxi is allowable, as I am not spending the equivalent of Ghana's GDP in Marks and Spencer on sandwiches, socks and cardigans***.
Now, apart from it being one of my In The Office days, what else was happening on Tuesday? Hmm? That's right. The State Opening of Parliament, one of our many rich, ancient traditions, beloved by all.
Beloved by all, except taxi drivers. And bus drivers. And anyone trying to drive around South London, actually.
The police had closed Westminster Bridge, so the cabbie apologised and said he'd go via Lambeth Bridge. American readers (in fact, anyone who doesn't know that part of London) may wish to get a map and draw a thick red line along the route we took, possibly using a crayon.
We inched painfully along the south bank of the Thames, nose to tail in a dreadful traffic jam. Eventually we got to the roundabout at Lambeth Bridge. The cabbie was looking anxious, and as we drove onto the roundabout he said "I don't fucking believe it!"
Me: What?
Cabbie: I'm really sorry about the language, love, but they've closed the fucking bridge!
Me: Fuck!
Cabbie: I know! Fuck it!
Me: So where can we go?
Cabbie: Hmmmm, I could try getting along to Vauxhall Bridge...what do you think?
Me: I have no idea....I'm not very familiar with London. (Which is why I am paying you to get me where I want to go, Cockney poltroon.)
That last bit in brackets was in my head, by the way.
We crept along another half a mile, still nose to tail in the traffic, sucking up thick clouds of bus fumes, cyclists and scooters weaving in and out around us. I watched the meter glumly. It clicked past the £10 mark and we were still a loooooooong way from Victoria. If I'd had any kind of idea where we were I would probably have hopped out and taken my chances walking the rest of the way, but I know what I am like. I'd have been lost, lost, hopelessly lost within moments. And probably either fallen in the Thames or down a hole in the road, never to be seen again.
I wish I was kidding.
The cabbie swore fluently and quietly under his breath, in between engaging me in cheerful chat about how shocking the traffic was. We made it to Vauxhall Bridge, sweeping across it at 5 miles an hour, then headed into the quieter roads heading up to Victoria Street. There were, of course, roadworks on several of the routes we took, making the cabbie perform U-turns and unexpected diversions. He apologised each time, suggesting that I might in fact prefer to go back to Waterloo and just go home.
Reader, I was tempted.
We eventually got to Rochester Row, and as he turned the cab into the street, he had to stop to allow two shaven-headed men to saunter across the road. Neither of them made any effort to speed up, or get out of the way, or even acknowledge that they were holding up traffic. I know pedestrians have right of way, but the were deliberately being dicks. And they got dickier.
The cabbie shouted, "Don't worry mate, I'll just drive on the pavement, shall I?"
I thought it was a mildly amusing bit of banter. I expected a similar riposte from the two road-crossing guys, maybe a V-sign, or similar. But no.
The older of the two stopped dead in front of the cab and yelled at the top of his voice: "Get out of that fucking cab! Get out here right now! Fucking get out of that fucking cab! Come on!" His mate stood beside him, also red-faced and belligerent, obviously enjoying being part of the unfolding drama.
The driver declined.
We drove around the purple-faced yelling nutcase and his simian companion and continued on our way, somewhat chagrined. Finally, after what felt like about a week, I spotted Victoria Street away in the distance, the other side of yet another building-site roadblock, and asked the driver to drop me off so I could walk the rest of the way. He agreed, although I did see him check the mirrors to make sure the mad shouty man wasn't running after us before he stopped.
He apologised again and again for the time it had taken to get almost to where I wanted to go. I said it was alright, he'd done his best. The cabbie suggested that the State Opening of Parliament should be a Bank Holiday. I nodded politely, but secretly thought that might be a bit excessive for everyone who isn't affected by the traffic chaos. Which would be everyone NOT in South London.
Anyway. I paid the taxi fare. £28. Twenty Eight Pounds. It had taken 55 minutes and cost me the price of a nice Chinese, but I had made it to work. Nearly. Plus I was almost involved in a huge fight.
When I got to my desk, half an hour late, people asked me how my journey had been. "Oh, fine," I lied.
Other news: I have lost another pound. It is slow, but mostly steady, and I have had several people at work say "You look nice today!" and then "Have you lost some weight?" which is very encouraging.
Mr WithaY is being supportive, in his own manner. I mentioned to him that I was wearing new knickers, a size smaller than my other ones. He looked at me fondly and said "Oh? I wondered what that squeaking noise was."
*As comfortable as it ever is on the Sardine Express
**Also, I am lazy
***You know how it is. You pop in for some lunch and come out with an outfit. And lunch.
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Fancy London ways
So, the weekend in London. Away from home, and out in the big city and all that. How was it? What did we do? What did we think of it? Was it fun?
Well, I jotted down a few points to bear in mind for the future:
1) Taxis are not cheap. Even for short journeys. Seriously. You will need far more cash than you think you will.
2) When booking a hotel online, do NOT be fooled by the short-looking distance it is from Waterloo on the map. It will in fact be fucking miles away and cost you a fortune in taxis. (See point 1.) Remember, London is much, much bigger than you think, so places can be a long way apart and yet, strangely, still be in London. It's not like Wiltshire, where there are large swathes of greenery to let you know when one place ends and another begins.
3) Check the location of Tube stations relative to the hotel. If there are no Tube stations within quarter of a mile, stay somewhere else, or Point 1 will apply. Do NOT imagine that you will walk everywhere. You don't know the area, or the way to where you are going, and anyway it will rain.
4) London is crowded. Expect this. Do not give in to the desire to fling slow-walking tourists off Westminster Bridge into the river when they impede your progress. By all means imagine doing it, and add hilarious sound effects at the same time. Do not, however, allow this to become reality.
5) If it starts raining, and it will, the Natural History Museum will be full of families trying to avoid getting wet. Do not allow this to provoke you into unbecoming displays of outrage as the children shriek and gibber like howler monkeys around the dinosaur skeletons.
6) When you tell the taxi driver (see point 1) where you want to go, and he then takes you somewhere completely different, many miles away, do not get out of the cab. Simply reiterate where you want to go, as you told him at the start of your marathon cross-London journey. Give him the exact postcode to programme into his SatNav system, then sit in silence in the back till you arrive at the correct destination. Pay him a reasonable amount and make a mental note not to use that cab firm again. A magical white London cab* will appear at the right moment to take you home. Yes it will. You just have to believe it will.
You're welcome.
We went on the London Eye (so high! So many short, squat, loud Northern women pointing out the restaurant where they had lunch yesterday, just there, just off the edge of Trafalgar Square, look, there, see it?).
We went to the Aquarium (sharks! So many fish of many different colours! So many dark corridors and small children to fall over as they blunder about, their parents transfixed by the fish.)
We went to the Natural History Museum, where we saw the ice rink out the front and admired the huge collection of sparkly, sparkly stones (so many Christmas present ideas!)
We went for a splendid dinner on Friday night at China Boulevard, overlooking the river, with a huge screen showing Celine Dion live in Las Vegas behind us. That was odd, but we put up with it because the food was great. Except for the chicken curry dish. That was weird and a bit crap, frankly, but everything else was excellent.
We had booze! At lunchtime! Unheard of, when you usually have to drive everywhere. Marvellous.
I took photos, oh so many photos, and will post some up here when I am feeling less feverish and rubbish. Because, yes! I have picked up a fancy big city Lurgy of some sort. Spent most of last night alternating between sweating profusely (usually I don't sweat much for a fat lass), and shivering as if I was in a homemade hut in the Arctic tundra, with Ray Mears mocking me from his cosy warm three bedroom semi-detached moss-lined palace.
So bollocks to London germs.
Other than that, a splendid time was had by all. The blogger/Twitter party thing on Saturday was fun. Met many lovely people, ate a million bits of chicken, drank a lot of not half bad fizz and laughed a lot. We could have done with little name badges though.
It was a bit disheartening to introduce myself to people and then watch them school their expression of "Who? I've never read a single word you've written," into "Ah yes, how charming to meet you at last."
Oh, and we got prizes! For one of the entries we submitted to the virtual Village Fete. Sadly, I have no idea which one was deemed worthy of a prize, but hey, we got a lovely** trophy and some posh Belgian chocs, so yay for us. It might even have been for this, but I doubt it. Or maybe this.
We need to get out more. Lordy.
*They are like the unicorns of the city, and only appear to the pure of heart. Mr WithaY can whistle them up like nobody's business.
**I will post a picture so all may admire its loveliness.
Well, I jotted down a few points to bear in mind for the future:
1) Taxis are not cheap. Even for short journeys. Seriously. You will need far more cash than you think you will.
2) When booking a hotel online, do NOT be fooled by the short-looking distance it is from Waterloo on the map. It will in fact be fucking miles away and cost you a fortune in taxis. (See point 1.) Remember, London is much, much bigger than you think, so places can be a long way apart and yet, strangely, still be in London. It's not like Wiltshire, where there are large swathes of greenery to let you know when one place ends and another begins.
3) Check the location of Tube stations relative to the hotel. If there are no Tube stations within quarter of a mile, stay somewhere else, or Point 1 will apply. Do NOT imagine that you will walk everywhere. You don't know the area, or the way to where you are going, and anyway it will rain.
4) London is crowded. Expect this. Do not give in to the desire to fling slow-walking tourists off Westminster Bridge into the river when they impede your progress. By all means imagine doing it, and add hilarious sound effects at the same time. Do not, however, allow this to become reality.
5) If it starts raining, and it will, the Natural History Museum will be full of families trying to avoid getting wet. Do not allow this to provoke you into unbecoming displays of outrage as the children shriek and gibber like howler monkeys around the dinosaur skeletons.
6) When you tell the taxi driver (see point 1) where you want to go, and he then takes you somewhere completely different, many miles away, do not get out of the cab. Simply reiterate where you want to go, as you told him at the start of your marathon cross-London journey. Give him the exact postcode to programme into his SatNav system, then sit in silence in the back till you arrive at the correct destination. Pay him a reasonable amount and make a mental note not to use that cab firm again. A magical white London cab* will appear at the right moment to take you home. Yes it will. You just have to believe it will.
You're welcome.
We went on the London Eye (so high! So many short, squat, loud Northern women pointing out the restaurant where they had lunch yesterday, just there, just off the edge of Trafalgar Square, look, there, see it?).
We went to the Aquarium (sharks! So many fish of many different colours! So many dark corridors and small children to fall over as they blunder about, their parents transfixed by the fish.)
We went to the Natural History Museum, where we saw the ice rink out the front and admired the huge collection of sparkly, sparkly stones (so many Christmas present ideas!)
We went for a splendid dinner on Friday night at China Boulevard, overlooking the river, with a huge screen showing Celine Dion live in Las Vegas behind us. That was odd, but we put up with it because the food was great. Except for the chicken curry dish. That was weird and a bit crap, frankly, but everything else was excellent.
We had booze! At lunchtime! Unheard of, when you usually have to drive everywhere. Marvellous.
I took photos, oh so many photos, and will post some up here when I am feeling less feverish and rubbish. Because, yes! I have picked up a fancy big city Lurgy of some sort. Spent most of last night alternating between sweating profusely (usually I don't sweat much for a fat lass), and shivering as if I was in a homemade hut in the Arctic tundra, with Ray Mears mocking me from his cosy warm three bedroom semi-detached moss-lined palace.
So bollocks to London germs.
Other than that, a splendid time was had by all. The blogger/Twitter party thing on Saturday was fun. Met many lovely people, ate a million bits of chicken, drank a lot of not half bad fizz and laughed a lot. We could have done with little name badges though.
It was a bit disheartening to introduce myself to people and then watch them school their expression of "Who? I've never read a single word you've written," into "Ah yes, how charming to meet you at last."
Oh, and we got prizes! For one of the entries we submitted to the virtual Village Fete. Sadly, I have no idea which one was deemed worthy of a prize, but hey, we got a lovely** trophy and some posh Belgian chocs, so yay for us. It might even have been for this, but I doubt it. Or maybe this.
We need to get out more. Lordy.
*They are like the unicorns of the city, and only appear to the pure of heart. Mr WithaY can whistle them up like nobody's business.
**I will post a picture so all may admire its loveliness.
Sunday, 17 February 2008
Bee bop a lula
I have been to help some friends celebrate their wedding.
In Cheltenham.
Well, they got married late last year in the Cook Islands (look on a map...um...everyone) and this was their "everyone who wasn't able to get there" (ie everyone) celebration.
It was lovely to see them looking fab and happy, obviously enjoying life, and partying with many friends and family.
As we were waiting for our taxi outside the venue at the end of the night, an elderly couple came walking down the steps into the car park, discussing the party.
Her: Nice evening, wasn't it?
Him: Yes. Good job I didn't have my hearing aid in...that music would have blown my head off.
Heh.
Our taxi driver was entertaining. He was a cheerful Indian guy who had dropped us off at the party earlier, and seemed really pleased to see us again. He was bemoaning the fact that it was too busy.
"Busy, busy, busy...all night long, too many calls, too many jobs! I don't see my wife, my children, no dinner, no coffee. Nothing. Aiieeeee."
He really did make that noise. I asked if he'd had anything to eat that night.
"No! I am STARVING!" he exclaimed, in such a wonderfully tragic way that we were hard put not to laugh. Bless. We gave him a tip and hopefully he got time to buy some chips or something with it.
As we left the hotel this morning I overheard the head of housekeeping giving instructions to her crew: "Tell me which rooms are really dirty. Sicky and that. You know."
Eww. Luckily our room was not sicky. Not when we left, anyway. And there's me thinking Cheltenham was posh.
Other news: I am planning to get a beehive. Not an Amy Winehouse stylee one, but a real one. With bees in it. The only real concern I have is what to call them all.
I was discussing with Mr WithaY where to position the hive. I suggested on the roof of the shed, so it's nice and sunny, and not too much of a danger in the garden.
Mr W: But won't that make it hard to get to?
Me: Bees can fly, dear.
I make myself laugh.
In Cheltenham.
Well, they got married late last year in the Cook Islands (look on a map...um...everyone) and this was their "everyone who wasn't able to get there" (ie everyone) celebration.
It was lovely to see them looking fab and happy, obviously enjoying life, and partying with many friends and family.
As we were waiting for our taxi outside the venue at the end of the night, an elderly couple came walking down the steps into the car park, discussing the party.
Her: Nice evening, wasn't it?
Him: Yes. Good job I didn't have my hearing aid in...that music would have blown my head off.
Heh.
Our taxi driver was entertaining. He was a cheerful Indian guy who had dropped us off at the party earlier, and seemed really pleased to see us again. He was bemoaning the fact that it was too busy.
"Busy, busy, busy...all night long, too many calls, too many jobs! I don't see my wife, my children, no dinner, no coffee. Nothing. Aiieeeee."
He really did make that noise. I asked if he'd had anything to eat that night.
"No! I am STARVING!" he exclaimed, in such a wonderfully tragic way that we were hard put not to laugh. Bless. We gave him a tip and hopefully he got time to buy some chips or something with it.
As we left the hotel this morning I overheard the head of housekeeping giving instructions to her crew: "Tell me which rooms are really dirty. Sicky and that. You know."
Eww. Luckily our room was not sicky. Not when we left, anyway. And there's me thinking Cheltenham was posh.
Other news: I am planning to get a beehive. Not an Amy Winehouse stylee one, but a real one. With bees in it. The only real concern I have is what to call them all.
I was discussing with Mr WithaY where to position the hive. I suggested on the roof of the shed, so it's nice and sunny, and not too much of a danger in the garden.
Mr W: But won't that make it hard to get to?
Me: Bees can fly, dear.
I make myself laugh.
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