I came downstairs this morning and switched on the kitchen radio to learn that there is a new kind of wild bee, that lives on ivy. Not just new to the UK, but newly evolved. Their ancestors fed on heather, but somewhere along the way the ivy bee switched to ivy. The adults don't live for very long, coinciding with the autumn flowering of ivy, and they nest in the ground, making burrows that can go down by as much as two feet. That sounds like a long way, for a small insect. They are not social animals like honeybees, instead each ivy bee makes its own individual nest, but I think they like to nest near each other. Some wild bees are semi-social like that, but I'm not one hundred per cent sure about some of the details of the ivy bee, as I had to go outside at one point to let the chickens into their run, after I'd refilled their water, so I missed bits of the programme.
I sent a link to a few friends who are interested in natural history. Amidst all the people busy tweeting about last night's Strictly or the latest celebrity wardrobe malfunction, you can still find some exchanging wildlife news before seven o'clock on a Sunday morning (I have heard back from one of them who listened on i-Player and pronounced it very interesting, so there). Here is the link, in case you want to try it for yourself The Living World.
When I got to work I could not open the combination lock on the gate to the car park. It has five wheels, and the dots have to be exactly lined up on all of them for it to release. The middle wheel is very stiff, and each time I managed to rotate it at all, it overshot. My co-worker for the day arrived behind me, and got out of her car to ask whether I was all right? I replied that I was not, because I couldn't get the sodding dots on the padlock to line up, and she managed to make it work. However, she said that two Sundays ago, when I left early to go to the concert, it had taken her ages in the pouring rain before she managed to close it again on the way home.
I left a note for the boss warning him that it needs a squirt of WD40, as I could barely operate it on a morning when the thermometer was well above freezing, let alone with cold fingers once we had a frost. Fastening the padlock behind us on the way home is done in our own time as unpaid overtime, by the way, because by then we have filled in our time sheets and clocked off. I made a mental note that I was not spending more than ten minutes maximum trying to shut their gate, and after that I'd call them and tell them it was still open.
It was still very windy, and some plants were pretty dry. I stood the roses up, watering the pots that looked as though they needed it as I went along, and before I'd got to the end, the first ones had tipped over again. Second time round we left them lying down. There is no point in picking things up for them to fall over repeatedly, even though it sounds catchy and defiant in the Chumbawamba song. In a plant centre they just get broken. My colleague got the short straw, as the first hose she tried to use drenched her with water from the end that plumbed into the irrigation system, and the one she switched it for seemed OK at first, then burst just behind the lance, soaking her again.
After that it was a fairly uneventful day. I'd already done all the jobs on the list the manager left for me, so I helped my colleague clean up some of her designated plants, but I could have done more, if I'd known what I was supposed to do. It would be far better if the manager left us a plan of how he wanted the tunnels to end up for the winter, with a list of everything to come inside and which area of which tunnel it went in, then we could use our judgement about what looked as though it was sitting too wet, and simply get on with it.
At this time of the year there is a mismatch between our stated hours of work, which end at four, and the closing time of the plant centre, given as dusk. The owners say they want somebody to stay until half past four, just in case a late customer turns up, but you are not supposed to put 4.30 pm on your time sheet. Instead you are supposed to come in late, or leave early another time, or take a long lunch. My colleague asked me whether I was comfortable staying until half past four by myself, since the edict is that only one person is supposed to stay late. She wasn't, and nor was I, particularly.
Neither of us are nervous characters or unaccustomed to dark nights in the countryside. Her husband was a gamekeeper, so she has a pretty fair idea of what goes on the country after dark, and our house is far enough away from the neighbours that nobody would hear you scream. However, the plant centre has had three break-ins in the past few months, and there have been other burglaries more recently in the village. The owners are worried enough about security that they left us instructions to go and set the alarm on the house, after friends they had staying had gone out for the day. If they are so worried about their house that they want the alarm set in broad daylight, even with all the doors locked, then I don't think it's reasonable to expect a sole member of staff to be alone on the premises as dusk is falling, carrying the day's takings and locking up.
I stayed with my colleague until half past four, when we both left, and put four o'clock on my time sheet, promising to speak to the manager about it in the morning. I'm happy to be allowed to leave early on Mondays, or arrive late, though that isn't as good because what's the use of an odd half hour at home on a Monday morning when you know you've got to go to work presently? I'm particularly happy for them to pay me the extra half hour I've worked. What I am not prepared to do is end up doing a half hour's unpaid overtime, because I an not willing to leave a sixty eight year old woman alone on the premises who doesn't feel safe being left.
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