Funerals For Bees

Some more short snippets of a young Joanne:

In my younger days, I was always scared of the possibility that people might not want to be doctors or surgeons or fire fighters any more. What if, suddenly one day, all the children growing up decided that it was all too much effort? So I was scared of that. And I guess I'm pretty grateful there's enough pushy parents around to force their children into medicinal careers.

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In primary school, traversing the fields with my best friend, we stumble across a lone bee. This bee, unfortunately, is not looking too healthy. We try and nurse it back to health as best we could (Meaning, shouting words of encouragement that probably only prolonged it's agony further). Alas, the bee didn't make it. So what am I to do in these circumstances? Why, you go gather some flowers, you prepare a few mourners, and you have yourself a service. At least, that's the sort of thing I got up to when I was younger.

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My sister, back in our youth, told me one tale that shall forever haunt me. Having our evening beverage; the Korova milk bar of my childhood- except without quite so much innuendo. So, milk in hand, my older sister speaks to me "Joanne, you do know milk has bones in?" "But only your milk. Mine's fine". Shocked, I refused to drink milk for quite a large amount of my younger years, due only to the fact my sister found it funny. Oh childhood. I blame her for my weak bones.