Death to wasps

OUR changing language. Closing a number of Muslim bank accounts, HSBC says it's because they "fall outside our risk appetite."

WE journalists, being wordsmiths trained in economy and accuracy of language, would never use such jargon. Wanna bet? Reporting on the departure of a newspaper boss, the media website Hold the Front Page announces: "He has worked to transform the company from a primarily print and product-focused group to a customer and community-focused media solutions business." Ye gods and little fishes.

A COLONY of wasps bored its way into our roof cavity, built a nest and started making threatening noises. In the good old days, you could sort out wasps' nests in a few minutes. Your local hardware shop would sell you insecticides so potent they were covered by the Geneva Convention. One squirt and every wasp within 100 yards dropped dead, goldfish expired a mile away and cattle in Wales would grow three udders. For some bizarre reason, such sprays have now been banned.

THE modern equivalent is a "killer" foam which the wasps seemed to regard as a toiletry. After two days watching them soaping themselves in the stuff, to no effect, we summoned a professional. Turned out to be a twenty-something lady with a long, pressurised wand which injected some frightful powder into the nest hole. After a couple of hours it went terribly quiet...

BUT even the professionals can't get the chemicals we bought over the counter in olden times, "the good stuff," as the wasp terminator called it. Lord knows why we're not allowed the good stuff but I daresay it had some strange side-effects on the human body. Short-term memory thingummy, wossname, where am I?

AND off once again to Upton House, the National Trust pile near Banbury which has some of the most spectacular terraced gardens you'll ever see. It also has many nooks and crannies in the flowerbeds where it is possible for the bold and cheeky to take illicit cuttings. It is a strange thing that while airports give us a full body scan, the National Trust does not frisk little old ladies for Secateurs.

THE hot spell may soon turn cooler. Shame, because life is so damn easy when it's hot. No lugging coal, no lighting boilers, no need for anything except shorts, T-shirts and Crocs. One sweltering afternoon I found my old thick Crombie overcoat hanging on the back of a door and could not possibly imagine any circumstances in which I would ever wear it.

I STARTED in journalism 45 years ago this week and claimed a couple of days ago that it was the best job in the world. My first introduction to the power of the Press came in my teens when I wrote about a deeply unpleasant and bullying landlord who got rid of his tenant by chucking her furniture and belongings on the lawn and changing the locks. I handed the file to the council, the landlord was prosecuted and the tenant got a new home. Not a bad result when you're 19.

TOO often, police speed traps operate like deep sea trawlers, scooping up thousands of offenders for the tiniest breaches of the limits. A few days ago West Midlands Police focused instead on the real idiots, stopping just 17 cars in 19 minutes. Among that little sample they found one doing 112 mph, another over 100mph, a foreign national with no insurance and another with no MoT. The best sort of policing is the sort where the majority of the public applaud you. Well done, all.