Moving on to a WWII fighter plane, Wilson evaded the glance of a security attendant and climbed deftly into the cockpit.
Following his instructions, I remained on the ground making 'Engine Noises' while W shouted pilot-ey things like, 'Roger Wilco! Angels at Twelve 0'Clock High! Over and Out!'
When the constant rendition of engine sounds made me breathless, W sympathetically called down to me, 'Okay, New Dad – take a break from the engine noises, can you do some gunfire instead? Oh, and some explosions! Tally Ho!'
Do you remember when Wilson and Byron went to a Steam Fair a few weeks ago, and they both declared that the Robin Reliant Halftrack was the Coolest Car in the World?
Well, Wilson has come across something he thinks is even cooler: this Royal Naval Air Service Armoured Car from WWI…
To me it looks like a giant biscuit tin with a camouflage paint job, and in this weather must feel like a microwave inside, but what do I know?
I suppose it does have a certain Retro Chic, although I'd still prefer something like a 2013 Morgan Super Aero 3-Wheeler 2.0 myself…
The Museum is so big that it's divided into four vast halls, and the first hall seems to be full of historic aircraft.
Wilson rushed over to one of the exhibits, a tenuous construction of cotton sheets, string and wood, and told me excitedly that this plane was almost exactly like the one his famous ancestor, The Blue Baron, flew in the Great Ant Wars of 1921.
Grasping a fragile wood and cloth part between his claws and waggling it about enthusiastically, he said, 'These are called the Flappers, because they flap about, and those triangular things under the wheels, they're called Chocks, because originally they used to use bars of chocolate – Toblerone, obviously, because of the shape!'
I have to admire W's utter certainty and confidence when he tells me stuff like this…
Hello, we are Polly and Billi the Bees, and this is our Guest Blog.
It’s a sad fact that some of you will only know about Manchester because of last year’s terrible bombing, when so many people – a lot of them children and young people – were killed or badly injured as they left a concert.
Manchester and its people will find it very difficult to get over this, but to try to make people happy a swarm of 100 Giant Bees and about 130 smaller (although still much bigger than us!) bees have landed in the City.
Because, after all, who can be sad when they’re surrounded by Giant 🐝Bees🐝?
They’ll be staying there until 23 September, so you’ve got plenty of time to go and see them – if you do, please tell them that Polly and Billi say “HI!”
Also, a Manchester poet called Mr Paul Jenkins has written a 100-line poem called BE(E) and visited all the Giant Bees to read a line of it in front of each of them!
We can’t find the words of the poem, but you can watch Mr Paul actually reading it here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rhdkQfy4yVM
IN OTHER NEWS:
We were all very relieved to find that Wilson, his toys and his New Dad had NOT, after all, been Abducted by Aliens. We expect they’re quite pleased too!
So anyway, we’ve been The Bees, and we’ll see you next month – until then, BEEEEEEEEEE GOOD!
#beeinthecity
By the time we reached our destination the rain had stopped and the sun had emerged!
This made the anorak I’d insisted on Wilson wearing a bit superfluous, but perhaps our holiday weather won’t be so bad after all.
W has a long family history of flying – his Great Great […] Grandfather, Alberto Victor Gutiérrez-López was the legendary Blue Baron in the Great Ant Wars of 1921, so he loves anything about planes, Ancient or Modern!
Unfortunately, though, it’s almost impossible to stop him touching (ie climbing on) the exhibits…
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Due to a longstanding agreement it’s The Bees’ turn to blog on Wednesday, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until Friday to see what’s inside this enormous museum…
Yesterday I carried Wilson, unconscious, from the Bar up to our room and popped him into bed.
This morning he awoke, staggered over to the window, parted the curtains a couple of inches and peeked cautiously out.
Gazing through the rain-spattered glass, he regarded a scene of wind-lashed trees and huddled pedestrians with umbrellas, in silence.
‘So,’ he said, turning towards me, ‘is that it? Is Summer over now? It’s not even August yet!’
Replying as cheerfully as I could, I said, ’No! Of course not! It’s just more like a traditional English Summer again – you know, Chilly and Damp with Occasional Sunny Periods!’
Anyway, the weather won’t trouble us today. I’ve found the ideal place to take W on a damp day – it’s indoors, and he’ll love it!
The UK has been baking under a harsh and pitiless sun for weeks now, with constant health warnings being issued about not venturing outside between 11am and 3pm.
Yesterday that ended, with a fearsome electrical storm and 89mm (3½”) of torrential, pelting rain falling in little more than an hour!
I hurried back to the bar to comfort Wilson, lest he be frightened by the thunder, but I needn’t have worried – I found him sleeping soundly.
Or to use the correct medical term, Passed Out.
I went to settle his bar tab, and the size of it assured me that at least, despite the heat, he was well hydrated…
With the temperature today set to reach 38°C (almost 100°F) Wilson has declared that it is too hot for normal holiday activities.
‘It’s even hotter than Costa Rica, New Dad!’ he exclaimed. ‘This unrelenting heat is totes doing my nut in!’
He popped Antony and TT into the MiniBar to keep them cool, and headed down to the hotel bar.
Here he asked the barman whether he could borrow an ice bag and a mini fan, and ordered a Mojito with Extra Ice. And Ants.
Then he made his way, with the ice bag balanced precariously on his head, to a cool corner of the Bar.
While he wasn’t looking, I had a quiet word with the barman asking him, when Wilson ordered cocktails, to only put alcohol into every third or fourth one…
Everyone is safe – please stop worrying!
I couldn’t bear seeing Wilson so down, so in the middle of the night I carried him, still asleep, out of his bed to the car, along with Antony and Tiny Toy, and drove with them down to Weymouth.
I left a note for The Bees, explaining what I’d done… but while I was unpacking a moment ago I found it in my suitcase; in my haste I must have accidentally packed it!
I’ve phoned home and put everyone’s mind at rest, and I can only apologise for any distress…
Anyway, Wilson is still sleeping – as soon as he wakes up I’ll tell him: we’re on holiday!
________
*Mea Culpa = My Bad in Latin – don't say this stuff isn't educational!
The Police have been back again to search the house, but to no avail.
They’ve made a bit of a mess with their Fingerprint Powder and Police Tape – in fact Polly is stuck to the tumble dryer by her antennae with crime scene tape as we speak and we don’t know whether it would be illegal to try to cut her free.
There’s still been no Ransom Demand, and Uncle Zoltan thinks this means the most likely explanation is that they’ve been Abducted By Aliens!
We just hope that if that’s the case, the Aliens don’t use their… um, Probe!
Just in case it’s NOT aliens, please keep a look out for an Anteater accompanied by two Toy Anteaters and an Elderly Man!
Oh, Polly says that Wilson’s New Dad prefers to be described as ‘late middle aged’ but I think we all know what that really means! ;o)
Hello, We are Polly and Billi The Bees and this is our Emergency Blog!
We know it’s not the first of the month when we usually Blog, but this is a PROPER EMERGENCY!
We went round to Wilson’s tumble dryer last night to see if he was alright and ask whether he’d like some Honey on Toast, and when we got there we immediately saw that he wasn’t there!
We asked everyone if they’d seen Wilson, and while we were doing that we noticed that Antony and Tiny Toy are missing too!
Although Wilson has been very depressed lately, we’re sure he wouldn’t do anything silly, specially not if Antony and TT were with him, so we think he must have been Kidnapped!
Or possibly Anteaternapped!
Obviously we telephoned the police straight away, but they haven’t found them yet.
We’ve made a MISSING POSTER – please let us know if you’d like a copy of it to put up in your window or at work.
As I was passing Wilson’s tumble dryer this morning, he leaned out and asked me, ‘This holiday – where were you thinking of going?’
‘Weymouth!’ I replied, ‘It’s really lovely there, with loads of interesting things to do and places to visit.’
‘So, where exactly is Weymouth – is it abroad?’ he enquired.
‘No,’ I continued, ‘It’s in Dorset, quite near to Bournemouth.’
W’s head withdrew, and I heard his muffled voice say, ‘Forget it, then. I’ve already been to Bournemouth. Many times. I’m bored of it. In the immortal Last Words of King George V, “Bugger Bournemouth!”’
‘Actually,’ I replied, ‘he said “Bugger Bognor” – and don’t use that word!’
I don’t know what Wilson and Nërp discussed – neither of them is willing to discuss it – although the following day, Wilson did seem a tad brighter.
Today, though, he appears to have relapsed a little.
I came across him sitting in the living room with the curtains drawn, quietly singing The First Cut Is The Deepest to himself…
I asked him if he was okay. ‘Yes,’ he sighed, ‘I’m fine…’
But it was obvious he was not fine – he was clearly some distance from fine.
I decided to play my Trump Card – the thing that never fails to cheer W up!
‘Do you feel like a holiday?’ I asked.
He fidgeted in his seat for a moment, and replied, ‘Okay. If you like.’
This was not the response I had been expecting.
Or hoping for…
Last night Nërp took Wilson aside for a private chat.
They shut themselves in the dining room, and were still at it well into the night.
Nërp had previously consulted me about whether it would be appropriate for him to offer Wilson any Relationship Advice in an effort to cheer him up about his lost love, Cinthya Nazereth.
I had some reservations about what a robot, however well-intentioned, would know about relationships – human, anteater or other – but I told him to go for it.
After all, W’s spirits are still pretty low, and I doubt anything Nërp might say could make him feel much worse…
When compared with CS Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters Wilson’s correspondence with the Flying Spaghetti Monster may not be Great Literature, but it’s still pretty unique – not many people have in their possession a signed letter from a Deity!
Accordingly, Wilson’s first instinct was to put it on eBay.
Having slept on it, though, he has decided to frame both letters, as they will become ‘A unique and priceless heirloom!’ in years to come.
In history there have been many gods, although most of them are no longer worshipped.
Estimates of the number of gods currently being venerated vary between just 15 and 330,000,000 (Hindus, eh?!) – but last Wednesday Wilson wrote a letter to one of them.
Not just ANY god – not even the god it would be most appropriate to write to on a Wednesday: Woden – W chose to write to the one god with the self-awareness to acknowledge that he [or she or it] is not real: the Flying Spaghetti Monster.
Imagine my surprise, then, when this morning a reply arrived!
The postman rang at the door and handed it to me in person – not because of its sanctity, but because it had been posted with Insufficient Postage.
A Golden Seraphim would have been good, but times must be tight in Pastafarian Heaven if they can’t even afford stamps…
Wilson has written a letter to the Flying Spaghetti Monster, explaining about the ‘miracle’ he thinks he witnessed and applying for the job of Pastafarian Saint.
Since the Church of Pastafaria is a satirical ‘religion’ founded to mock the teachings of creationists, I can only guess how his letter will be received.
What puzzles me even more is, how W knows the address of the Flying Spaghetti Monster…
Father Xmas [Santa Claus] perhaps, but an actual deity – albeit a satirical one?
I finally located Wilson round by the Asteroid Shelter, where he and the sTone Brothers were staring, awe-struck, at Mr Juicy’s grave.
(You may remember Wilson’s friend and co-star, Mister Juicy The Talking Orange, who died in tragic circumstances at the end of last year.)
I followed their gaze and saw, picked out by a sunbeam, an orange tree, bearing several oranges, growing out of the tomb.
‘It’s a Miracle, New Dad,’ Wilson whispered to me – ‘It’s a bona fide miracle!’
‘It’s NOT a miracle,’ I started to explain, ‘it’s just that Mr Juicy must have had some seeds in him when you buried…’
But Wilson continued, ‘I shall write to the Flying Spaghetti Monster – He will probably declare Mr J a Pastafarian Saint! He might declare ME a Pastafarian Saint, because I discovered the miracle!’
On hearing this, the sTone Brothers started shuffling about and trying to attract W’s attention…
Wilson was in the garden discussing yesterday’s match with the sTone Brothers.
When the Uckfield Bees play, their usual position is Left and Right Goal Posts, so their knowledge of The Beautiful Game is about as shallow as W’s – but none of them let cluelessness stand between them and a good chat as they discussed such topics as:
• Is Football Really Coming Home?
• What does that even mean?
• Should the Half-Time Break be extended if some of the players need a bit of a nap?
and
• Should the Handball Rule be relaxed if all the players have paws?
Suddenly, though, the air was rent by W screaming, ‘New Dad! New Dad! Come quick – something’s happened!’
I ran out into the garden to see what had occurred, and to determine whether First Aid would be necessary…
