"...In every nest there is a wasp."

"Hummm. *strokes beard* It's too late for wisdom. Shhhhhushh."

Maybe that was a closet prediction. At work, a wasp wriggled its way up my trouser leg, stopping when it reached my thigh. I was stacking plates, oblivious and unaware, happy so.

As it stung me repetitively, I was putting myself in its shoes. I mean, poor wasp. Trapped in a very small space, between fabric and skin. I would have done the same. Maybe this was a baby wasp, coming to terms with being hated by everyone.

But then I thought, NO! All wasps are evil. They have that red-eye evil glint in their eyes, and they BUZZ. Oh, how they buzz! Smashing into windows and buzzing in an evil way. And STINGING. That's when I realised I had been stung, and finished my internal dilemma. I rushed off and fished the wasp from between my trouser leg and my sock. I am in possession of such a great, forgiving quality that I refrained from squashing into wasp pulp against the tiles of the ladies' floor.

The PAIN!

There we all were gathered, underneath Chinese paper candles in a typically wet English garden. Hopping around to the sound of two or three guitars played almost at random, Spanish singing and finger clicking galore. In the rain. The hoots of raucous laughter only partly alcohol induced. Three different languages - English, German and Spanish. The English in the minority. Two against the four Germans and five Spaniards.

I don't speak Spanish. Nor do I understand it. Sitting there and letting another language, especially one as beautiful as Spanish, wash over you is a wonderful thing. First comes the admiration and the jealousy. I wish I could speak like that. It sounds like musical rain on a beautiful lake somewhere in Italy with the little boats tugging past. And people eating biscuits. Italian ones.

Then comes the realisation that although you don't understand the words, you know what they are talking about (namely keeping your kidneys warm). There's something about languages which intices me to listen and nod and laugh.

(The Eternal Optimist - yes, another barbecue scenario. No, let's go further. Another WET barbecue scenario. Another parasol-over-barbecue-keeping-the-sausages-dry deal. But never again will I doubt or question your optimism. Twice has it beat my doubt and pessimism into the mud which is currently our gardens.)