There are dead bumblebees, everywhere. Lying forlornly on the pathway, nestled in the flower bed, limply strewn in the gutter like stripey little fuzzy pillows of sadness. Is there anything in this life more wretched than a dead bumblebee? Other than Morris Dancers I am hard pressed to think of anything. And so this season as you are stuffing yourselves full of turkey and unwrapping your Hoola Hoops and Donkey Kong games, I beseech you to give a thought to the poor little bumblebees, who died so that you can spread overpriced manuka honey all over your crumpets.
See what I did there?
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