THANKS to the rigours of lambing, Sunday was my first day off in a month, which meant I did not have to get up at 6am for my daily appointment with a muck fork.

So when I was woken up by an insistent tickling on my shoulder just after 5am, I was obliged to tell Mrs Hextol somewhat forcefully it was not my turn to get up to let the dog out – even though it is always my turn.

I attempted to brush away her insistent fingers – and was rewarded by a bolt of pain that caused me to perform a lively jig beneath the bed clothes.

I shot out of bed to turn on the light, to the extreme annoyance of Mrs Hextol, who had been still wrapped in the arms of Morpheus and clearly not the one who had caused my discomfiture.

“There’s something in the bed that has just bitten me,” I attempted to say, but it did not come out too clearly as I had my throbbing finger stuffed in my mouth.

She is well used to being woken by my bizarre somnambulant actions – I tipped her out of bed onto the floor when she was eight months pregnant in the belief there was a burglar under the mattress – and was about to launch into a tirade when I pointed at her pillow with a shaking finger.

There on the snowy white cotton was the still-twitching, hairy leg of the monstrous creature that had attacked me, presumably detached when I swept it away.

Then she gave another small scream, and when I found my glasses, I could she was directing my attention to the curtains, which were being pulled out of shape by perhaps the biggest wasp I have ever seen. It was more than an inch long, quietly pulsating, and I could see a dewdrop of poison still dangling from its stripy back end.

I have always had trouble with wasps, ever since being stung in the cleft of the buttocks by one whilst putting up a tent on a Dumfries and Galloway campsite. The pain was so intense as I danced around clutching both cheeks while letting out a volley of expletives so colourful that children abandoned the play area to see what the funny fat man would do next.

As I wildly looked round for something with which to squash my assailant, she squeaked from beneath the bedclothes: “Get a towel out of the airing cupboard!”

I pointed out rather hotly that I was trying to kill the venomous varmint, not give it a wash and brush up, but she sensibly replied: “Anything heavier might smash the window.”

I wrenched open the cupboard door and pulled out the first towel I came to, a fluffy blue number, but Mrs Hextol peeped out from under the duvet just long enough rule it out on the grounds it was one of the best ones, and could not be sullied by insect guts.

Back into the airing cupboard I delved, but when I finally discovered a towel that was acceptable for wasp extermination, the creature had flown. That put me in something of a quandary, for I was in a state of undress, and there was far too much wobbly flesh on display – including some very tender areas – for the creature to have a second stab at.

“It must have flown out of the window,” I declared, as I ducked hurriedly back under the bedclothes, while Mrs Hextol disappeared, muttering, downstairs to make herself a cup of tea.

I rather hoped she would come back like a ministering angel with a bottle of vinegar and other soothing unguents guaranteed to take away the pain, but she returned only with her cup of Typhoo.

An inch by inch search of the bedroom unearthed no sign of the wasp, so we both eventually lapsed back into an uneasy sleep, despite my finger throbbing like a Norton Commando at full throttle.

An hour or so later, I was yet again roused from my slumbers by Mrs Hextol’s stentorian bellow –“It’s back – on the edge of the curtains!”

And there it hung, like something from a horror film. This time there was no towel quest or prim clutching of private parts – I picked up my slipper and crushed it mercilessly against the wall.

I’ll swear I heard the corpse hit the carpet – my concern now is how many of its mates will turn up for the funeral!