Further to the bees, I would not want it thought, not for one moment, that Parish beekeeping contents itself to be inward looking; takes in only the near-sighted view, such as not to be aware of those tracts of territory stretching out beyond the Parish borders. No. Parish beekeeping is inter-territorial, a larger vision, in which the beekeeper's eyes are to the wider horizon. Indeed, some of the beekeeper's finest moments may be seen to trace back, upon inspection, to this wider horizon, the broader perspective.

Thus it was for me: the unexpected, the finer moment: midst humble obscurity, pleasant enough, perhaps uneventful; not given to mountains and troughs, seldom experiencing storm or tempest: here, all at once, a moment of glory, perhaps nothing less than my finest hour.

Or was it all just a big mistake?; a gigantic mistake? (Please read on: I will explain it all, later.) Did they mistake me for a leading sportsman; or, perhaps, even, some pop star on tour? Not very likely, looking at you, I hear you say. But, then, how to explain it? ...... could they possibly have known it was me?; no-one else? Here I must ask you to judge for yourself.

It happened like this. It is the usual thing among Parish beekeepers to have some sort of contact with the essential services - the fire brigade, ambulance, that sort of the thing: because it sometimes happens that one can be of small service; especially at those times when bees like to swarm - on those balmy, sunny, childhood, days such as sometimes we experience in the early summer. At such times one may be asked to chase after some bees, bring them back home; put them into a convenient hive such as there are several around the Parish .

So off the Parish beekeeper will go, on this small errand; soon to return, together with the bees. All that is needed is some suitable receptacle: perhaps nothing more than a cardboard box with MARGARINE stamped on the lid. (It is possible, of course, to adopt an approach on a grander scale - use a box with HARRODS on the lid. This will be a matter of nice judgement - depend upon how one judges the occasion: who will be there, so on and so forth.)

On a certain occasion, a swarm had alighted at Elephant and Castle. That was how the message ran. There was nothing much more by way of detail: just Elephant and Castle. Off I went, without so much as a second thought.

Now, on arrival, Elephant and Castle seemed larger – much larger than I had thought. And the buildings, too, were on the large side - much larger than we are used to in the Parish. Further, there were passages, dark and cadaverous, running underground.(Those who were good enough to read the Magazine will know that bees like the dark and cadaverous.) Were the bees there?, I asked myself.

I peered into corners: spent a while in fruitless searching for the bees. My morale suffered - suffered the onslaughts of Giant Despair.

I told myself ......This is an ideal place for getting lost. Never mind my looking for the bees: why, soon half the Parish will be looking for me. Then they might get lost. There was no telling where it all might end. So perhaps I should abandon the purpose of my visit; concentrate, instead, on finding my way home.

I had noticed, as it happens, that, a little way off, there seemed to be some sort of gathering: what amounted to quite a crowd, in fact. I thought: now, perhaps make just one last effort and then you will be free to return to the Parish. Here was my opportunity: I would ask these people if they had seen the bees. It seemed unlikely, but better than doing nothing. It would only take a moment - I did not want to make myself a nuisance; detract from whatever it was was going on. It was just that I wanted to make some sort of showing: have something to say to the fire brigade, or ambulance, or whoever it was on that particular occasion.

I approached on foot: cardboard box under one arm. Perhaps a sporting event was in progress: a cross-country run about to be completed; some kind of London Marathon, perhaps?. There was a parcel of ground cordoned off - a sort of arena: probably reserved for the presenting of prizes, cups, shields, badges and so on.

I approached further. At this point, I was spotted by the crowd. Now what happened next was totally inexplicable. The crowd, to my amazement, became wreathed in smiles: fell to vigorous and spontaneous applause.

What on earth is going on?, I asked myself. I could not understand it. Either, these people were having me on or else they were making a gigantic mistake - one of the two. In either case I would be better not there. Should I make a dash - cut and run? (In sizing up this cowardly attitude, remember please that, at that point, morale-wise I was touching rock bottom.)

But no: that was not to be permitted. Swiftly I was escorted to the arena. Someone lifted up the cordon plastic surrounding same; then stood back. I was encouraged into the arena ...... alone. There was a deathly hush. Before me, I spotted the swarm of bees.

Did the crowd know the bees were there? It seemed they did. It seemed, further, that they wanted them removed. Further still, they seemed to think it was a difficult job - nay, a dangerous job - and that I was the one to carry it out. They, for their part, were there to watch - see the spectacle, enjoy themselves. There seemed no other explanation.

From the close-to-despair of a moment before, I felt myself switch to the triumphal mode. I waved to the crowd; set about my work. I looked round for further adventures ...... why, was that a dragon's snout I could see, up there on the 14th storey, smoke billowing from his fiery nostrils?; not, surely, just some sort of exhaust pipe leading from the hot water tank…..?

All too soon, it was time to leave. I gave the crowd an elaborate bow; doffed my metaphorical hat. Before very long I was on the way home, soon to re-cross the Parish border. Then to recount my great adventure.

Now, it is time to look at the thing as it was: size it up. Let us not concern ourselves that I was ill-prepared: did not have a crease in my beekeeper's trousers; had not cleaned my beekeeper's boots; was possessed only of a cardboard box with MARGARINE, in capitals, stamped on the lid; that, indeed, that box had seen better days, was somewhat battered, stuck together, as best I could manage, with an inferior kind of sellotape. No, let none of these things detract, for one moment, raise a question-mark over the significance of the occasion. Let no-one say it was just a big mistake. This was, without question, without any doubt, my finest hour, my glorious moment.

Now what about you? Should you not join the Parish beekeepers? You, too, could have your moment of glory.