Stinging criticism

On the artist's behalf I've sometimes likened the art world to a kind of wasps' nest; I'd no idea one of my first tasks in the foothills would be actually to destroy one. A busy nest, you see, established itself under the guttering close to the top of the Artist's Parents' house. It's a building in which a local mine used to keep its explosives - for primary and secondary blasting - so it's suitably robust. This robustness doesn't extend to warding off the wasps, though - yes, those velvet ants again - with their sharp tapered abdomens and black and yellow stripes. 'Conflict resolution,' I'm told, and I'm suddenly sitting there with some extremely flammable nest destroyer foam in my hand, reading about its killing power. (If it destroys karma, I hope not mine: I've had enough stings to last a lifetime.) Anyway, I stand up and shut the upstairs window. A ladder is out of the question. I open the dining room window, the only one with reasonable access. I lean out, look up at maybe 50 wasps. (I'm doing it for the children, I tell myself.) I try my first few yellow-belly squirts, beginning with a 5-second take-that-you-beautiful-strangers-I-don't-really-want-to-be-doing-this ejaculation. They hover and turn. I fire another. This one's a God-I-hate-doing-this-to-you-I-can't-believe-I-am shot, followed by a boy-now-I've-started-I-ain't-gonna-stop kind of shot. One of them has it in for me. (Look who's talking.) Just as they're about to surround me under buzzed instructions from the aforementioned zealot - a waspy kind of word - I dash back in and slam the window shut. Phew. I stare out, still panting. One of the wasps - yep, pretty sure it's him - lands splat on the window - right in front of me: head-height - and begins its slow and long slide down the other side of the glass, leaving a tiny trail of despair. I'm sure he's trying to tell me something. (Now I really do feel bad.) Oh, no. At least 100 are gathering now... A few hours later, I peer up like a colonial officer and check the state of play. All quiet on the western front. (I wasn't trying to make an exhibition of myself, really.) Ruddy art world.