I officially declare spring’s arrival. Even though it officially began six days ago and I’m officially unofficially spring’s herald.
Minus the trumpet and that weird back and front apron thing.
Oh, and the floppy hat with the plume.
Also, I’m probably too tall to wear those brightly coloured midget leggings. I’d have to order them in giant size.
Aside from the fact that you may turn on your news this evening and see an overgrown-weird-apron-wearing herald puffing blue-facedly on a trumpet (and believe me, I would be blue-facedly puffing, no matter how non-existent that word is. Wind instruments have never quite been my forte), I just wanted to let you all know spring is here.
In case you’d forgotten.
Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to step outside, breath in the daisies and do the chicken dance in celebration of spring.
That is unless you reside up the north end of our blue planet and are experiencing cyclonic autumn weather, abnormally early snowfall, or perhaps an endless downpour or two.
In such conditions, I don’t recommend the chicken dance.
Back to the joys of spring.
For me, nothing represents the season more than newly opened flowers and busy buzzing bees. As it happens, I was in Mum’s garden today and found both.
I will now share the 6.4 million photos I took of said flowers and bees.
You know I’m obsessed.
Before I’m done, you’ll be sobbing tears of boredom and relocating to Iceland.
Just remember to pack your wooly underwear.
I’ll send you a post card of the sunshine.
As it happens, I happen to know quite a bit about bees. My dad, a.k.a. The Boss, started keeping them as a hobby when I was a teen.
I can tell you all about catching bee swarms (an art requiring a bed sheet, a bee-obsessed father, and a pair of legs to pelt up the hill away from anger female insects with a grudge. A good set of lungs also comes in handy.)
I could tell you here in Australia, we have native honey bees that don’t sting you. Possibly because they’re tiny and midget-like, but I like to think they’re more civilised and have more brains up top.
Why pointlessly attack a giant and die an agonising death?
Here we go. See if you can spot the Aussie.
Cute, isn’t she?
Some other facts I could pluck from my never-ending fountain of bee knowledge are;
A bee’s wings beat 11, 400 times per minute.
After stinging you they die from abdominal rupture.
They aren’t born knowing how to make honey.
And their scientific name is aspis mellifera.
Okay, I lie.
I googled the above.
I enjoyed spending a pleasant afternoon with the bees, and their counterpart, the flower.
I could have wiled away the whole afternoon.
Then lunch break was over, my trades-woman duties called and I had to bid my spring friends adieu.
I’m not 100% sure, but I think this photo is code for ‘Talk to the butt.’
May you never puff blue-facedly on trumpets,
xx The Girl in Trousers