The sting in the tale

One from time to time was a bit annoying; two or three fizzing about the place was very uncomfortable indeed, but by the time they were ten or 12 strong, the situation had become intolerable.

It's wasp season again, and when I found myself flailing around like an eccentric conductor demanding more from a lacklustre string section in a bid to hang the washing out, I knew it was time to take action. There was a wasps' nest somewhere in or on my roof, and I was just the man to locate and banish it.

By calling José.

José is the local Superman, opting for questionable orange shorts and a T-shirt over a cape, but there he goes, consistently fighting everyday village inconveniences rather than, say, Lex Luthor. His list of victories so far, where my house is concerned, includes damp patches (various), a leaking pipe (within the wall), a faulty electrical circuit, re-plumbing the outhouse, furniture removal at ten o'clock at night, and a spot of light painting just to keep him out of mischief.

I called him.

“Hi José - maybe it's not your thing, but there's a wasps' nest somew-”

“Claro. I'll be over when it gets dark.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it. The thing is, it's the World Cup final tonight, and-”

“No pasa nada. We'll do it at half time.' (He must have seen a preview of the planned entertainment.)

I tried to put his rather worrying use of the word 'we' to the back of my mind and returned to lobbing my clean washing wholesale into the wardrobe.

And so it was. Argentina stopped punching Spain for half an hour while José somehow managed to locate the wasps' nest hidden under a roof tile just by walking about a bit (one minute, maximum). He did something decisive up there, at one point running towards the roof edge and certain death before pulling up short and laughing. Then he climbed down the ladder.

“They won't be troubling you again, Pedro.”

He sounded like Don Corleone, so I didn't ask for details, but I did slap him on the back rather weirdly, as if it might have been a team effort or something.

“Thank you very much, José. How much do I owe you?”

“Nada, Pedro. It was all done in 15 minutes. Buy me a beer sometime.”

It had been a remarkably quick operation, which meant I was in danger of catching Justin Bieber and maybe Madonna, flanked by two ageing footballers channelling the spirit of Ali G. I resisted the resultant urge to find him 15 minutes more work, thanked him profusely, and watched as he disappeared over the horizon on his motorbike, continuing on his mission to keep everyday village inconveniences at bay.

At one point, I thought I saw a cape flapping in the wind.

It was probably just his T-shirt.

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