Hugh Reilly: Bumbling bee will turn classroom into a hive of activity

Published on Tuesday 15 September 2009 20:32

AS A LAD, a favourite summer pastime was to collect bees. Wimpish boys placed an open jam jar directly behind a bee engrossed in French-kissing a wild lily and entrapped it using the lid. Despite having five eyes, the hapless bee fell for it every time.

Other scamps, including yours truly, revelled in edge play. Our modus operandi was to enclose the bee in our palms, stun it by shaking it violently and then deposit it in the jar. If our prisoner in the glasshouse managed to sting one of us, it merely added to our heightened state of excitement. When I look back, being ignorant of the dangers of anaphylactic shock was such bliss.

Unfortunately, as a consequence of helicopter parents preventing children participating in any perceived risk-taking activity, kids go ape when a striped frequent flyer enters classroom air space. As most rooms don't have flowers to pollinate, one can only imagine the bumbling bee is operating with a dysfunctional sat-nav.

On a sunny day, when Sir is obliged to open the windows to allow fresh air to dilute the BO cloud formed by the evaporation of ripe pupils, mayhem erupts when a single stealth bee wings his way into the classroom. Kids who had been barely able to summon the energy to blink through your brilliant lesson on stages of a Bill in the UK parliament, jump out of the plastic seats and scream. It's Beatlemania, or at least beemania.

As the person responsible for the students' health and safety, it's incumbent on me to restore calm by pointing out that staying still is the best course of action. Canute had it easier trying to turn back the tide.

Resigned to the fact that even large doses of Mogadon would not sedate the squealing mob, the desperate teacher does a desperate thing. Sir morphs into Uri Geller and summons powers of telekinesis to move the bee towards the class pest.

The dominie salivates as his drone circles menacingly above the target – a painful sting would be a satisfaction enough but, knowing the medical history of the ned, it would be a bonus if the bee had nibbled on some nuts before sinking its teeth into his lip.

Parapsychology, however, is not an exact science and inevitably the bee stings the quiet, bespectacled girl who had foolishly put her faith in your quack advice to remain motionless. As she falls from her chair in a torrent of tears, guilt forces the teacher to roll up the latest glossy Curriculum for Excellence guidelines and attempt to swat the insect.

After a few fresh air swipes, a blow lands. The crowd of kids gathering round the funereal scene wonder why they were so scared of such a small life form, but an unexpected twitch from the bee reignites panic. In a humane act, a swift size nine stamp of Sir's right loafer ends the intruder's suffering and the dilemma is now whether the deceased should be interred in the waste bin or the recycling receptacle.

While Sir did not look for any thanks from his charges, he did not bargain for their sudden conversion to Buddhism – "Geez oh, did ye really need tae dae that?" they howl. Even the watery eyes of the girl who has been stung display contempt.

In this situation, the chalkie has much empathy with Jack Nicholson's Colonel Jessep in A Few Good Men when he says (and I'm paraphrasing slightly): "I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a child who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it."