Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



" Are you sure he stung you ? " asked my host with 

 genuine concern. 



' Well, unless he used a pneumatic drill he couldn't 

 have done worse." 



" Come up to the house immediately," he ordered 

 " and I'll treat it. He'll die, of course, now that he's 

 lost his sting. The other bees will drive him out." 



I felt like murmuring " too bad about him " but I 

 restrained myself. My nose now felt the size of a 

 tomato. Before we were out of the garden it had 

 blossomed into a Jaffa orange, and by the time we 

 reached the house it was a full-grown turnip. 



Endeavouring to look through or round a synthetic 

 turnip held at close range, may, occasionally, provide an 

 excellent piece of optic gymnastics, but when the 

 fumes of methylated spirits join the festivities, no self- 

 respecting eyes could be expected to refrain from 

 weeping. My tears were those of neither joy nor sorrow, 

 they were just tears. And as they streamed down my 

 cheeks to the accompaniment of fresh applications of 

 methylated spirits, I felt what a prize fool I had been 

 that didn't go home with the horse instead of waiting 

 to provide a target for an apiarian Air-Raid ! 



40 



