The British summer is a peculiar event. Much anticipated, much utilised. For nine months of the year nothing happens. Literally nothing. We sit here, strumming our fingers and doodling. Then June arrives and we are off. For three months every wedding, birthday (sorry about that, blame my mum) and anniversary are packed in. Parties, gigs, festivals, all arranged to fit into the narrow spit of optimism that we call summer. If you are lucky enough to live by the the coast, visitors are suddenly keen to pop in. If you are fortunate enough to be a gardener, stuff grows, things need watering and chopping and removing. These are feeble excuses, I have been lax in my reporting. Here is another bee, they usually manage to soothe the disappointed.