WASPS never used to bother me. I would wave them away politely, or quietly move aside, accusing anyone who flapped or screamed of making an unnecessary fuss.

But all that has changed. Over the past few weeks, I have splatted, squashed, zapped and beaten to death hundreds of the little stripey pests. I am even affectionately known as the Terminator in our house. "You show no mercy, mum," said the 11-year-old proudly.

My killer instinct emerged when the boys were stung after disturbing a wasps' nest in the woods. While the rest of them were back out playing again within a few minutes, the five-year-old suffered a particularly nasty reaction.

First, one of his eyes closed up. Then I noticed one of his ears was bright red, and about twice the size of the other. Within about 20 minutes his cheeks and neck had swollen to the point where he looked like a little pumpkin. It was three days before he looked normal again.

The doctor said he was one of the one in 400 people who are extremely allergic to wasp stings. Reactions tend to be more severe with every sting and, since it could prove fatal, he now must carry a life-saving injection of adrenaline in case it happens again.

And what a summer to be presented with this news. Wasps are everywhere. When we took the children to the Lightwater Valley amusement park as an end-of-the-holidays treat, there were huge posters warning us about the large numbers of wasps.

There were buzzing black and yellow clouds hovering over the bins, they were dive-bombing people in the food halls and swarming aggressively around children eating ice-lollies. I told the five-year-old not to worry, while rigorously patrolling the ten metre radius around him, in my role as chief bodyguard and wasp killer.

During the holidays, we avoided all those restaurants and cafes with notices outside warning they had been invaded by wasps, only to discover those without notices had been invaded as well.

One organic, vegetarian caf in North Yorkshire had a humane wasp trap hung from the ceiling. But I earned a few discreet cheers from other diners when I ruthlessly beat about eight of them to a pulp with the menu card.

When I apologised to the waitress for the carnage, it turned out she suffered from a severe wasp sting allergy as well and kept her own swatter hidden under the counter.

I was able to tell her about my powerful new battery-powered swatter that electrocutes wasps on contact.

Of all the wasp-killing products on the market that I have since bought and tested, the most successful has been Lakeland's plastic beer-filled trap which lured and caught more than 150 of them at our garden table over just two days. But when I went back to buy more, they had sold out nationwide.

Unlike me, the five-year-old still shows some compassion towards the nasty little insects. Hearing the sizzle of yet another wasp frying on my swatter, he protested: "Won't God be sad? You're not supposed to kill any of his creatures, are you?"

Not wanting him to become overly alarmed about the danger, I told him wasps weren't really any good for anything. "They're thugs. Unlike bees, they don't make honey. They're not part of the food chain. And anyway, many people would consider drowning in beer to be quite a nice death." I don't think he was convinced.

What I didn't tell him is that a mother will do absolutely anything, even if it means facing the wrath of God and eternal damnation, to protect her young.