Mr. Mhor Makes a Startling Claim

Mr. Mhor once fell off a wall and broke his leg (as discussed in a previous post) and made it clear that he considered gardening to be a new and untried method of healing fractures.

This seemed highly unlikely to me but I did tell him to posit this theory to an orthopaedic surgeon and thus make their respective fortunes, assuming he was correct, and the usual medical advice to rest and elevate fractured limbs was wrong.


Mr. Mhor spent an inordinate amount of time in the garden. Whether he was trying to prove his theory or whether he was avoiding doing his share of the housework, I do not know, but the fact remains that he was in the garden all day long, even taking his meals outside.

He hobbled in on his crutches one evening and informed me that he had moved a magnolia bush. Or maybe it was a bed of marigolds. Whatever. I am not well-versed in gardening terminology and quite frankly I wasn’t terribly interested.

Mr. Mhor knows this, but he pretends he doesn’t. He is forever asking me difficult questions about the garden, such as “Do you remember when we had some sweet-scented stocks over there” and “Have you seen my hoe” when he knows full well that I have no idea what he is talking about.

So. He had moved a bush/plant/shrub to a different location. I think he was hoping that I would ask him why he had done this, but I carefully refrained from doing so, as I had a feeling that the ensuing conversation might become acrimonious, and I wanted to avoid that at all costs (I had a shelf that I wanted him to put up) and it seemed politic just to nod non-committedly.

Mr. Mhor then appeared to be full of mirth about something. Wearily, I enquired what was so funny.”The bees”, he said. “The bees keep flying towards where the bush used to be. They can’t understand where it’s gone.”

I said (with some asperity) “Surely they are not the same bees? You are not claiming that you recognised those actual, individual bees? Next you will tell me that you have named them.”

“Oh yes, I did recognise them, ” said Mr. Mhor. “They were the same bees. I know my bees.”

Now I may know nothing about gardening but this claim stretched credulity. How can anyone recognise particular bees? Mr. Mhor was adamant, however, and unfortunately the discussion DID become acrimonious, and the unconstructed shelf remained in the cupboard under the stairs, as flat a pack as it had been when I’d lugged it into Mhor Cottage in the first place.

I can only assume that the painkillers Mr. Mhor had been prescribed had temporarily addled his brain.

I now await a series of vexatious emails from my loyal followers, telling me that they, too, can recognise individual bees.

Why, even the Robbing Butcher himself does not have such pretensions.

Published by themustressmhor

Retired Nurse and Midwife, living in Middle of Nowhere, Argyll, Scotland.

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