Baptism with B

After today I feel even more like a beekeeper, although I haven't controlled a single swarm yet. Somehow, every beekeeper I come across, who's written an article or held a talk, always has a photo of him (invariably a he, testimony to the slighter brain of males) with a swollen lip where a bee stung him. These are used as cautionary tales, but I always feel with a certain sense of pride at having been tough enough to survive such an ordeal.

Well....

Not a wasp's favourite

Perhaps better

Today, in my bid to find out what kind of beer the wasps will go for (there were of course none in the trap when I checked the next day; wasps don't seem to relish la bonne maman marmelade watered down) I checked the trap again, after having filled it with Boddingtons the day before.

A wasp unsure where to go, although it's not far

Even then, I had the feeling the wasps were making fun of me, as they were everywhere except by the surely sweet-smelling ale. Today, despite there being a large number of wasps flitting around the hives, only three had ventured into the traps to their doom. So, school kitchens being cornucopia (though not usually filled with alcohol), I nabbed a Beck's to see whether the wasps preferred that.
I don't know yet.

What I do know, though, is that as I was watching the wasps, willing them to fly into the trap, a bee left the Star at terrific speed, collided with my face, just above the lip, and stung.

Consequently, I am now sporting a very unmasculine semi-trout-pout, but have the requisite photo for any future beekeeping sessions.