ALIENS are here. This opening shot is not some journalistic fantasy, but something I fear to be true. Well what else is at the bottom of my garden?
Before the CIA, FBI, MI5 or any other government organisation whose stationary allowance will only stretch to three letters descends on the Happy Rhodes Homestead (ala the end of ET) I reckon you do not need to set your guns to stun just yet. I fear this invasion is a little more of a slow burner.
All visions of those comedy Roswell aliens, or anything Will Smith shot while wearing a noir shade of bespoke tailoring, can also be left to one side.
What I talk of is so out of this world there can be no other explanation other than they are an invader from another galaxy.
I should know one crawled out of my shirt the other night. Talk about Close Encounters.
To many people wasps are the annoyance you have to swat away the odd time on a summer’s day as one makes a Stuka-like bombing run for your Mr Whippy.
Right now I remain convinced they are extra terrestrial super- beings.
And there is plenty of evidence that wasps are not of this earth.
They serve no purpose. They’re not in the food chain, they do not produce honey and cannot be called ‘the gardener’s friend’ like other bugs. Nature usually kills off its more hapless efforts. The dinosaur and the dodo etc.
Maybe it has something to do with their survival instincts and bodies designed by the lovechild of Arthur C Clarke and George Lucas.
My obsession comes after I discovered a swarm (or should the plural now be ‘an invasion’) of wasps under my apple tree.
It appears they have taken a liking to the fallen fruit and use them as a fleet of readymade caravans.
The Put Upon Wife decided it was my job to gather all the said infested fruit and get rid.
I did this until I found one large apple crammed full of anything between half a dozen and a thousand wasps.
I dropped it instantly, looked around before letting out a pathetic cry of ‘yearrrahh’.
It was only an hour later when I felt a rustling under my collar that I started to worry. I was just about to slap it when out popped Mr Wasp. He looked me in the eye and then flew off without a care in the world. Stunned, I should coco.
Thankfully it appears I may have the last laugh. One great gardening sage has reliably informed me I may have unwittingly brought the invasion to a halt.
“Having spent the summer collecting proteins for their young, wasps are free, as autumn approaches, to gorge themselves on rotting apples. This renders them fat, lazy and drunk.”
Maybe I have jumped to conclusions about these natty dressed ETs – they don’t sound so different to your average Northern Brit after all.