Bumble Bees and Killer Whales

Once, when I was about seven or eight, I accidentally put my hand down on a bumble bee. It really, really hurt. In fact, I have only ever felt pain like it on two occasions since: once while getting my eyebrows threaded, and once after being hit by a Renault Clio.

When I tell my bumble bee story, I generally receive one of two responses. People either say "Were you alright?' or they ask 'Did the bumble bee survive?' One could argue, on the basis of this, that there are two types of people in the world: Bug Huggers and Bug Haters. I have to admit that I am firmly rooted in the latter camp. I think my family is the cause of this. For as long as I can remember, our under-sink cupboard has been stuffed with an arsenal of fly spray and ant powder and slug pellets. I was raised to believe that it was perfectly acceptable to flick a ladybird, stand on a spider that was giving you the stink-eye, or spin 360 degrees like a champion discus thrower and put a moth out of its misery with one smack of a slipper.



In fact, it's fair to say that my family were suspicious of most creatures, both great and small. We had no problem with animals that kept their distance: killer whales splashing about in Antarctica caused us no difficulty, they could go about their business freely, but a neighbourhood cat or a squirrel or an aunt's over-excited sheepdog was usually met with distrust.  As a result, I now have no great affinity with animals at all, and when my friends debate whether Alsatians or Chocolate Labradors are more beautiful I have only one response to hand, a response that dare not speak its name in animal-loving company:  "Neither. They're dogs."

My good friend Sara, on the other hand, is a classic Bug Hugger. On a recent holiday to Menorca, she and I hired a car. As we drove, a bumble bee flew in through the open window. In this situation, my family would consider it the front passenger's moral duty to roll up the Michelin Road Map of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and whack the bee, leaving a great orange smudge above Rotherham to serve as a reminder of the crime. Sara merely opened a window, hummed serenely and gently encouraged the bee to reach its car-exiting potential.  She too believes her respect for insects comes from the teachings of her parents, "Although they did quite often kill wasps".

In spite of our differences, Sara and I are prime examples of how these two types of people can rub along perfectly well together, given a little effort. I do not judge the folk who see beauty in bottom-sniffing canines, or tragedy in squished beetles. Sara, in turn, kindly overlooks my abject cruelty.

Having said this, it is always useful to know upfront which type of person you are socialising with, particularly when eating sugary foods outdoors. If you want to find out which type of person you are speaking to, feel free to tell him or her my childhood bumble-bee story.

If anyone asks, the bee did not survive, and I was fine after a gin.



Moths beware