When I was a kid, my mum befriended a lady from church who had two daughters either side of my age. Preferring to be stronger, faster and more intelligent than my playmates, I chose to spend most of my time with the younger daughter, Kate. We would dress up her dolls and take them into the garden, then climb onto the roof while our mothers weren’t looking.
One afternoon, we were crawling through some bushes when Kate suddenly turned to me and said, “I did a poo in my pants.”
“Flush your undies down the toilet,” I advised.
“Alright,” Kate agreed and walked gingerly back into the house. I followed her and stood outside the bathroom door for a few minutes.
“Kate?” I called out, “What does it feel like? The poo in your pants.”
She paused for a few seconds, then answered, “Bees.”
It wasn’t until much later that I wondered when she ever had a pantload of bees to contend with.