To bee or not to bee

On my way back from the wonderful Médiathèque d'Antibes, a haven of calm in the midst of the maelstrom of dust and noise that is our building at the moment, I saw that they had cordoned off part of the Place Général De Gaulle, and there were fuzz and firemen in attendance.

People were looking worried and pointing at a tree. After the wind of the last few days, I thought it might be a case of unsafe branches needing lopping, but no. Up there in the branches was a large dark thing, like a pinecone, about twice the size of a football. There was an audible hum in the air. A nest of bees, some said, whilst others thought it was a colony of wasps.

Whatever it was, they were taking no chances. The road was barricaded. By this time the traffic had backed up as far as the eye could see, but indications of the queue's even greater extent were furnished by a cacophony of impatient klaxons, played with virtuoso abandon by all and sundry. A Futurist art of noises, no less.

I asked one of the firewomen how they were going to get rid of it. Not them, she said, adding that the firemen were only there to provide a safe platform, whilst the apiary hecatomb would be performed by the municipal beekeeper. I heeded her advice not to be anywhere in the vicinity when that happened, and headed for the daily shop at the superette.