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WITH a casual, contemptuous snip of his or her pincers, the Coconut Eating Crab has been about his or her work. The Crab, of course, is the malevolent deity that rules our fates on this lump of rock, tormenting us for his or her pleasure as an act of ironic cosmic revenge against his corporeal form’s curse, which is to spend its life seeking the heartbreakingly-almost unattainable.

My late business partner, Brother Lipscombe, was always a cautionary presence on those occasions when something would go right. ‘Watch it,’ he’d say amid the sound of popping Champagne corks and tooting party poppers, ‘just watch it. All you have done is bring the next kick in the balls that little bit closer.’

This place’s guru, the good Captain Kay, is wisest in the ways of the Crab, and he, too, cautions against over-enthusiastic expressions of joy, for human content is the one thing certain to drive the Crab to act.

Well, as you know, I have guarded against happiness, much in the manner of Brother Stents, these many years – being a left-winger adrift in a morally bankrupt world has been one insurance against outbreaks of delight, and being a father of two small children empartnered to a teacher who works 24 hours a day seven days a week has very effectively killed any chance of marital bliss.

Unfortunately, I just can’t stop content breaking out: I live in a beautiful place which brings me joy each fresh morning; I love my books, my music, my animals, my friends – all these things bring me pleasure; as do many more. All my friends will tell you that I try to contain myself with a healthy dose of glass-half-empty always at hand, but I just can’t help smiling occasionally.

To the Coconut Eating Crab, human content is the equivalent of sacrificing a virgin – it summons him or her instantly.

This time, the bastard has afflicted me with bees.

He or she has sent me a swarm of honey-bees to build their new home beneath the bedrooms, in the cellar beneath our mostly single-storey house, which they have accessed via a ventilation brick. We don’t think they can get into the main body of the house, nor are they likely to want to, but they have made their way through the tiniest window opening. They won’t want to hurt us, of course, but that will be no use should my enormous saggy arse descend upon one, for example. Or, God forbid, one of the children rest his head on a pillowed bee.

The Cornwall Bee Keepers Association, may the Crab bless them, is full of good people who deal with these crises for no reward at all. What a wonderful world it is that such bodies exist: a great bank of knowledge and advice freely offered, help freely given, good freely done for humans and, more importantly, for bees.

Brother Beekeeper, instantly appointed to this place, arrived this afternoon and calmly pondered the problem. First, he’ll lure the workers out into a trap and then, hopefully, we’ll hack out the ventilation brick to get at the comb, thereby ensuring the survival of this new colony.

Because the twist in the stingy tail of this latest act of the Crab is that, being persons who want to do the right thing, love nature and love our environment, the last thing we want to do is destroy the bees – nice piece of work by the Crab, that.

So this balmy June night we sit in our house with all windows firmly shut, listening to the constant buzz from outside.

The one thing of which I am totally certain is this: If Brother Beekeeper succeeds in his mission, which he will commence on Wednesday, I will make absolutely certain bloody sure I am not happy about it.

Now then, go in peace and, as we followers of the Clawed One say, May The Crab Not Be With You.