Halfway up the back stairs on a ledge is the body of a wasp so big it’s either a queen or some kind of hornet. I’ve left it there as a warning to other wasps and also because I enjoy the weird effect it has on me. Even though obviously I know it’s there, every time I pass it its shape triggers in me an involuntary shudder: the sinister curve of its abdomen, articulated like plate armour; the warning yellow and black; the horrible sharp black stinger which you can just imagine jabbing into your skin. God I hate wasps!
Some people say that if you just leave them alone they won’t harm you. But I’m not taking any chances. When the wasps start appearing at the al fresco luncheon, drinking the beer and attacking the prosciutto, I’m the pillock you see leaping up from the table and dancing in panic round the garden to escape my pursuer while everyone else looks faintly embarrassed. Then later, I’ll get my revenge by trapping one of the little sods in a glass and drowning it.
When it’s completely inert I then bury it in salt and watch it resurrect. First the mound of salt begins to stir, then out pops the head, mandibles working, wiping off the salt from its face with its front legs in a way that’s oddly endearing. I never kill it at this point. Like a gladiator that has entertained well in the arena, you have to reward it with freedom.
But I don’t think one should get too sentimental about wasps. They’re evil bastards and can do you real damage, as I was reminded just now when a wasps’ nest appeared in my lawn and I rang my brother Dick for some advice.
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