Suddenly, the tiny room where we keep the computer servers had filled with bees. They were oozing out from around and under the door in their dozens. In the autumnal chill of the upstairs landing, they were moving slowly, seeping like a stain towards the top of the stairs.
Thick underfoot, we whacked them with trade magazines (one markedly better than the other one for this, if for nothing else) and hoovered them into the vacuum cleaner, which began buzzing in a sinister fashion. I remembered my fire-warden training and blocked up all the cracks around the door with damp tea towels, sealed the bigger holes with wet kitchen roll. I'm nothing if not practical. The inside of the frosted glass half-window became gradually obscured with a shivering yellow-brown mosaic, and then they found their way into the roof space.
As the afternoon progressed, wasps (as it turned out, not bees) dropped heavily from the light fitting onto my keyboard, my papers, onto my hair, into my coffee. I let them bumble around drowsily before they met their doom. I hit them with a ruler. I smacked them with my shoe. I got bolder and crushed a couple of them with my clenched fist, just to see if I could.
I was having such a shit day in the office I didn't even care.
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