“THESE wasps are drunk,” I told Judy on Tuesday as we tried to eat lunch in the beer garden of our favourite Cotswolds pub.
“Look at them – they’re rolling all over the table.”
It was true. Big, fat wasps had descended on our meals but were blundering around all over the place, crashing into our faces, falling into my beer, crawling haphazardly and falling sideways, feelers and legs kicking he air.
Turns out I was right. The next day Cleankill Environmental Services’ Paul Bates issued a public warning: beware the tipsy wasp. Billions of them are now on their own version of summer holiday: they’ve finished supplying nectar to their queens, which have stopped laying eggs and don’t need any more food brought to them, and are free to gorge on fermented fruit, making them pugnacious and liable to sting. In other words, he says, they’re jobless drunks.
Yesterday I caught one in an upturned wine glass. Was that a tattoo on its right feeler? I have sworn tiny blue letters spelled “H.A.T.E.”
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