Wasp Flaps

Me Dad was upstairs yesterday when a very large wasp flew into the lounge. Me Mum doesn't like wasps, in fact nobody does do they, they are the Carlos Tevez of the insect world. So she swiftly shuts it in the lounge and yells upstairs for me Dad to come and see this MASSIVE wasp/sort the problem out. "Yeah right, I'll be down in a minute or two he says." Dead casual like. Then the phone starts to ring. Except me Mum isn't going to answer it is she, as that would mean entering the lounge where this buzzing Cesna thing is is. So me Dad realises after five or six ring rings that this is the case, so in a Basil Fawlty type "right, leave it to me, I'll do that as well then shall I, shove a brush up me arse and I'll sweep the floor as I'm running round" sort of moment he comes running down the stairs. Vaults the stair gate (there to stop me going UP the stairs), bangs his knee..ring, ring...takes a stunned 20 seconds or so to open the lounge door (it's NEVER shut cos the handle is a bit stiff), bursts into the lounge...ring, ring...swatting giant killer wasps like Indiana Jones he is...ring, ring..only to pick the phone up a nanosecond after it stops ringing. To which he eloquently releases a string of expletives Gordon Ramsey would have blushed at. Something to do with the dubious nature of the caller's parentage and some other stuff I didn't quite catch, cat flaps or something, only to then hear a faint "er, hello it's Mr Robinson here from the something or other gardening society." It seems that me Dad DID in fact make it to the phone in time after all and this was the elderly secretary of some stuffy old gardening society that me Mum has joined who's just added a few words to his 76 year old vocabulary. I sometimes think that I'm the only sane one in here. Pooh count: three. One of which looked like Carlos Tevez actually, cut off at the neck, with a Stevie G (I do eat a lot of carrots) and a Nicholas Anelka on the bench. Smokin.