S Tominaga (Aka Dr Craig Wright)@CsTominaga
Oh well. It has only been a year since I decided that apparently one must now become a farmer, beekeeper, mechanic, irrigator, carpenter, and reluctant student of the emotional fragility of insects.
So the colonies are not yet at their full grandeur. Still, somewhere between four and five litres of honey now sit upon the table in smug little jars glowing like bottled amber sunsets. Frankly, I am not entirely certain of the volume because every jar in this house appears to have been designed by a different civilization with its own private system of measurement.
And this is merely the beginning.
Next year I expect ten times as much, at which point I shall have the distinguished problem of possessing an absurd quantity of honey while having absolutely no intention of selling any of it. Commerce is such a vulgar end for bees. They work themselves into tiny winged hysterics manufacturing liquid gold, only for modern people to squeeze it into plastic bears beside the pancake syrup.
So I suppose the future consists largely of forcing honey upon visitors.
One imagines guests arriving with caution:
“Craig, please, no more jars.”
And I, naturally, pressing another kilogram into their trembling hands like a provincial duke distributing titles.
