THE Queen P this week puts away her Crocs, swaps her active wear for a suit and puts away her golf hat for a hair-do fit for television cameras.
She puts the holiday behind her and again fronts the courting kangaroos as they judge her. There’ll be opponents dancing in her shadows, preying on mistakes, trying to remain humble as they sharpen their knives.
We all know the Queen’s got a potent sting in her tail, but there comes a time when all of us start to fade.
It’s like the first time a young person offers you their seat on a bus. At first, you’re offended. You tell them you don’t want it, nor need it. Then, you learn to roll with the punches and accept that you’ll spend more time sitting these days.
It’s tough being Queen P, and even when you’re feeling a little light-headed, there’s still a need to remain presentable.
Most of us are happy running around with a tissue hanging from one nostril as we rub eucalyptus oil on our chest and pop cold and flu pills like they’re red jelly beans which we have, incidentally, also bought at our trip to the chemist.
We hide under a doona and wait for the virus to pass.
We’re okay to parade through the kitchen wearing little more than y-fronts and a Jackie Howe singlet.
Okay, Wanda doesn’t wear y-fronts anywhere, at any time. But it’s a little known fact among our family that she does own a Jackie Howe, and she’s proud of the way it shows off the curves she’s built over three months of pilates.
It’s also a forgotten tale that the reason the singlet has its name is that a bloke named Jackie Howe – a shearer – broke the shearing record in Killarney in 1861.
Sure, it’s a long time ago, but isn’t it great that someone’s legend can carry on in such a form?
Mannies, as one of my grandchildren calls my sagging breasts, aren’t flattering in such a manly piece of clothing, but I feel a little taller and a tiny bit stronger when I think of how a surrounding group of sheep farmers much have been cheering their man that day.
Despite her best efforts, the legend of the Queen P won’t last as long as Jackie’s. With hive ratings lower than an iPhone 2, it’s only a matter of time before the worker bees mount their mutiny.
You see, the Jackie Howe singlet is comfortable. And comfortable is how we want to feel when we’re suffering.
But not the Queen P. She’s got to be looking her best at all times or the paparazzi will be over her like snakes in a chicken yard.
She’ll smile as she tells everyone she wants to manage the hive through Spring, in the hope there are better days ahead not only the hive’s health, but that of the garden it services.
And we all know that we can pull a few weeds. They look gone, but they’re still there. And the more we pull them out, the more they seem to grow. Which is when we reach for the Round-up and give it a really good shot.
The worker Ps will continue to smell the flowers, but they’ll see what’s happened to the weeds.
And this is when they’ll see the writing on the wall. They’ll know it. Their opponents will know it. And all those who allow the hive to sit in their backyard will realise it’s time for change.
It’s a tough business trying to manage a hive. Unlike a family or a business, it’s never rightfully yours which means your tenure always sits on egg shells.
Not fair? Maybe. But the hive’s a democratic paradise.
Hey Wanda, if you’ve got a moment to stop looking at your tone in the mirror, I think we should go out for dinner. And yes, I’ll put some pants on.
