After Colette left the office I cracked and made it a bee-home out of an old suspension file and some sellotape and put it hopefully next to the bee. It could barely move, but it could move well enough to tell me what it thought of that. On quivering legs it tottered away from it, dragging its emaciated abdomen the length of the windowsill before attempting feebly to climb a glass vase.
It's a respectable bee, it doesn't need charity and cardboard boxes from the likes of me ... or perhaps it's caught in some strange Bauhaus delerium. Give me porcelain! I crave the certainties of glass!
* No, not you. I know you don't care.