GENEVA

I know some of you have read this blog I wrote some time ago, but many of you are new to this site, so I’m re-posting several of my “old” blogs on here. Hope you all enjoy it. It’s all completely true, written as it happened. Hugs, JoJo

GENEVA
C 1997 JoJo

Having completed my high-school education in Brazil, my parents decided I should go to college in England. They thought this would make a lady out of me and round off all the bumps and kinks in my character.

After a great deal of searching, they opted for Elmslie Commercial College, a small all-women’s college located in Maidenhead, Berkshire. I suspect that Father settled on this college because he knew there wouldn’t be any young men around to distract me from my studies!

Unfortunately, it didn’t have boarding facilities, so it was arranged that I’d board in a girl’s boarding school just down the road. Both were owned by the same headmistress, Miss Westlake, nicknamed by her charges “Geneva” for no better reason than because Geneva is a lake in the West! West Lake – Lake West. Ah well, it was as good a nickname as any and besides, we all felt frightfully clever that we could openly talk about her in her presence, without her having the remotest idea that she was the object of our conversation. Or so we thought. No one could accuse Geneva of being stupid. In retrospect, I’m sure she would’ve figured it out.

I will never forget the first time I set eyes on Geneva. I’d arrived at the school after a two week sea voyage, complete with bags and baggage. Timidly, I made my way to her study and knocked on the door. I heard what sounded to me like a lion’s roar of “ENTAH” so I opened the door and entahed.

There sat Geneva, behind a massive desk. She was, without a doubt, the ugliest human being I’ve ever set eyes on. Her face was devoid of any make-up (not that make-up would’ve helped) and her skin was a white pasty colour. Her nose was huge and she had a mouth full of crooked teeth. She was a very tall, very big woman with grey hair parted down the middle and severely pinned back with hair clips. It was cut short in a straight uncompromising line across the back of her massive head. I have no idea how her head was attached to her torso, because she didn’t appear to have a neck. I couldn’t help staring at her chest because she had what must surely be the largest bosoms I had ever seen. I remember thinking she resembled a Sherman Tank because she too had a massive superstructure. My next observation was that her left pale-blue eye was looking straight up. Naturally I looked up to try and discern what it was looking at, and on seeing nothing but a dirty ceiling with cracks in it, I looked down only realise that her other eye was glaring at me. It was not an auspicious beginning to our relationship. Frankly we disliked each other on sight.

Apart from running two schools, Geneva’s passion was bee-keeping. She had six or seven hives located in her second, walled in garden. She forbade us boarders from ever setting foot in this garden – not that she need have worried – wild horses wouldn’t have made us enter that bee buzzing place from hell.

One day, I was out in the front garden and stooped down to smell a beautiful pink rose. Unfortunately, one of Geneva’s bees

was there before me, and it promptly stung me on the nose. It was extremely painful – my face swole up to such an extent that I looked as if I had no nose whatsoever and my eyes were reduced to two tiny slits. Geneva took great delight in taunting me, and encouraged the other boarders to do the same. Her sarcasm was biting and cruel.

But you know what they say – what goes around, comes around. A few days later, one of Geneva’s hives swarmed. Obviously, she was remiss in keeping tabs on what was happening inside this particular hive, because it had acquired a second queen. As everyone knows, when this happens, the second queen takes off with her entourage of drones, worker bees and what have you, and off they fly into the great blue yonder.

Now there’s a law in England which stipulates that when bees swarm, if the owner is able to keep them in his or her sights until such time as they land, he or she can claim them. The owner can then set about making the necessary arrangements to smoke the little devils, scoop them into a bag and take them home.

When she saw that her bees were leaving home without her, Geneva leapt into action and dashed off down the road after them.
It goes without saying that Geneva didn’t wear a bra because Playtex doesn’t run to size 58 FFFF. As I watched her galloping down the road yelling “MY BEES, MY BEES” I discovered something interesting: Geneva’s massive bosoms didn’t bounce up and down in unison like everyone else’s. For some peculiar reason, they

appeared to have independent suspension, and bounced up one at a time, whacking her alternatively on both sides of her face. I thought she was going to knock herself out. In fact, I rather hoped she would! However, it was not to be – an hour later, a very bedraggled and dejected Geneva panted up the drive and admitted that the swarm had chosen to fly in the manner of the crow, and that she’d lost them.

She was determined that this wouldn’t happen again. From that day on, she could be seen peering anxiously into her hives on a regular basis.

Eventually, Geneva spied a new queen in one of the hives and decided to smoke her out and relocate her into a new one, which had already been set up for this purpose. I was lounging in the main garden when she came striding out of the house, and when I saw her, my mouth dropped open in astonishment. She certainly was a sight to behold! In one hand she carried a smoking bellows. She wore trousers tucked into knee high Wellington boots, a long sleeved shirt, and gauntlets which ended at her elbows. Her outlandish get-up was topped off with a hat with a veil covering her face. The overall effect was, in one word – gruesome.

Geneva smoked the hive and re-established the new queen and her entourage into their new home. Then she strode back into the house, unaware that a drowsy little bee had attached itself to her veil.

That night, when Geneva got into her passion strangler flannel night gown – so did the bee! We boarders were woken up from a deep sleep by shrieks emanating from the main corridor which linked our dormitories with Geneva’s sleeping quarters. We rushed out to see what was happening. To our delight, Geneva was bouncing up and down the hallway screaming “THERE’S A BEE UP MY NIGHTIE, THERE’S A BEE UP MY NIGHTIE.” We watched in rapt fascination and cheered the little fellow on.

Eventually, Geneva managed to kill the bee, but not before it had done valiant service and stung her on her right buttock. We were all ordered to return to our beds, but later we snuck into the corridor and retrieved the battered little body of the bee and tenderly placed it in a matchbox. Next day, we buried him with full military honours. A small grave was dug and we all stood around it and sang “God Save the Queen” (I don’t know why – it just seemed the right thing to do at the time). Penny Louden gave a moving eulogy (“To Bee or not to Bee”). Annabel Scott then blew “Taps” on her Kazoo while the matchbox was ceremoniously lowered into the grave.

For a week, Geneva sat in a lopsided manner, and every time I saw her avoiding her right buttock I made a point of catching her eye – and smiling. It drove her nuts, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it!

It is certainly true that she who laughs last, laughs best.

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