I’VE never been the sort to run shrieking from bees while flapping my arms, but still I’m quite glad this glass is between us. Rupert at the House of Honey in WA’s Swan Valley won his first award for beekeeping aged eight after pestering the local World War I veteran/bee enthusiast to teach him everything he knew.
My abridged knowledge is limited to what Rupert tells me after I examine some clunky paraphernalia*. If you puff smoke at a bee, it’ll think the hive is on fire and hastily slurp up lots of honey to brace itself for a long trip. Its abdomen swells up to the point that it can’t sting you – and nor can it be arsed, now. And that’s when you make off with its loot.
Keeper? Probably not, but you never know.
* Don’t quote me.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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