Bees and lavender.
I have read two novels in which bees featured. Can't recall the names. They were good, but not that good. As for lavender... No, I can't think of lavender literature.
This lavender - an Italian variety my father says - has a wonderful strong sweet scent. The bush was bee paradise. The bees, I saw three varieties of bee, were drunk on nectar. You could strong their furry bodies and they took no notice, maybe just to fold a wing more tightly. I found one dead, picked it up and considered bringing it home to sit with the buzzard's feather, but decided against it.
There are things I should do... contact people, prepare my Italian football book, go through the dreaded again, work on the practice essay, paint. I can't find the right internal buttons to press. Bugger, I think: leave me alone, nagging voice of conscience.
I can't even make myself write more. Look at my bee. Ah, a cliche of busy-ness! Let its activity suffice.
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