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I don't get annoyed by many things, except...
no. Let's start again. LOTS of things irritate me. Mostly politics and people who clap on a Thursday then go online and say BORIZZ IS DOOING HIZ BEZTTT and then go to have a fucking street party and do congas and VOTE TORY.
I've gone way off the point already. Start again Joe.
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When I am writing, sometimes, or working on something, and concentrating.
Too many commas. Hang on. RESET.
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I try and concentrate but I seem to have either a short attention span or a very sensitive um.
What is the word?
I don't like being interrupted if I'm working, on my own, although in an office I can do it of course. That's weird isn't it. I spose it's totally situational.
Course it is. Fucks sake.
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OK so flies sometimes come in when I'm working and they fucking annoy me. I cannot stand the fucking buzzing shitfucks.
That's better.
So they stop me working and therefore I chase the cunts around with a stupid little plazzy tennis racket thing that I electrocute myself with more than I catch one.
The cats have given up; they don't even bother trying to get em anymore.
They don't go after things that buzz. I assume cause wasps and bees have both stung them in previous chases. Which is quite sensible really.
So it means I am chief shithead fly-getter. I don't really like doing it but these flying turd-eating, egg-laying-on-food bastards are horrible little fuckers and I don't want them in my house. It makes me feel sick.
Today just now just a minute ago I heard buzzy buzz buzz and I thought FUCKING BASTARDS FUCK YOU and went to get the fucking flies...
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FLASHBACK AT THIS POINT PLEASE CHEERS
Earlier today, say 10am or thereabouts, I came down from my Saturday lie-in to get the paper wot had been delivered and make cups of tea and stuff.
On the windowsill, on the inside, was a dying, exhausted bee.
I gave him some sugary water.
I even gave him honey. Was that taking the piss? They don't eat honey do they? Fuck.
Cows don't drink milk. You don't put toast in the toaster. And all that.
He flopped about on his back and couldn't turn over. I tried to gently use a cotton bud to help. He kept falling back over.
I could however see his tiny proboscis thing sucking and slurping at the sugary water.
This carried on for about ten minutes.
When I googled it, I saw that it was likely that this was an old bee, just coming to the end of his bee days, and just going the way nature demands we all do, one day.
So I thought, well. Poor little bee, but at least you had a lovely final meal.
And I very, very gently took the little plastic lid I was using for his food, with a dying bee slurping up sugar as he faded from this world, and I ever-so-softly placed him in the scented rest of a flower. He flopped about, hardly able to get a grip on the nectary stamen.
I even made up a little song: "Poor little bee, lovely little bee, go to sleep, go to sleep". I mean, I'm soft as shit really. Poor little bee. Hopefully little bee had a sense of comfort or even luxury as he bee-d his last, and became a has-been bee. A has-bee.
I sighed, made tea and coffee and gluten-free toast, and took it all upstairs so we could read the paper in bed. It's a lovely thing to do on a weekend if you can. Comforting. Luxurious, really. These things are important to us too.
END OF FLASHBACK TA
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I drifted back to sleep for a bit. Then I got up, and played some piano, and got told off cos it was too loud, and sulked.
I opened up my computer, to check soccermanager and other such nonsense.
The fucking buzzing flies came back. Little fucking bastards. I hate them so much. They are somehow dirty. I dunno. So I got my fly-swat tennis bat thing ready. Little shits. I sometimes can get them, but if I can get them to just fuck off outside that's good enough.
Buzz fucking buzz.
This time, though, it wasn't flies or bluebottles.
It was a pair of honey bees.
I said: "Oh hello bees - nothing for you here, but this way is the garden", and gently showed them the open windows.
Off they went with a final buzzy flourish. I like bees. I would stroke them if I could. They seem so benign and pure.
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Then I caught the fleeting wing of a thought. And a half-remembered tune.
I went to check the flower.
The bee, my has-bee, the lovely little sleepy bee, was no longer there.
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I mean, what do we really know about the creatures we share the world with? What do we really know?
We know what they do but we don't really know why. We have theories of evolution and gene replication and instinct and et cetera et cetera. True, too, that every year we get surprised by what animals can do: monkeys entering the stone age. Corvids and octopuses doing amazing things with counting and... yeah.
And - so, well, bear with me here:
We do know that some bees do a waggledance don't they.
To tell others in their hive where the good stuff is.
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I have never had bees come into the kitchen before.
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Never.
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