ONE thing our grandson's taken home from his latest visit to us is a fine lesson in adult hypocrisy. It wasn't meant to be that way. I blame the wasps. Have you noticed how many there are about this year?

But I'll come to them in a bit.

It all began well. Our grandson's stay coincided with our neighbours' holiday week, so we were in charge of the cat, the rabbit, three guinea pigs and Shadow the goldfish.

Jonah loved helping to feed them. He'd hold out his hand for a pinch of fish food and tip it carefully into the tank. Then he'd sit back to watch Shadow rise to the surface to gobble up the tiny crumbs. He stroked the cat while I tipped cat food into the bowl.

Best of all, he loved the 'skinny pigs'. They seemed to like him too. When I came near they'd scuttle to the back of the cage, but as soon as he opened the door they came running to him making that funny whistling noise that seems to mean 'Welcome, friend!' in guinea pig.

Jonah enjoyed pulling up grass and clover and dandelion leaves for them to eat, and then watching their high-speed nibbling.

As well as being fun, it was good for him. He hasn't any pets at home in London. He was learning a small lesson in how to take care of smaller, weaker creatures, to nurture and protect them. It's something he's already been taught at home by his mum. He's been told you mustn't harm spiders or slugs. You may not like them very much, but you shouldn't hurt them. They're all living creatures, to be left alone. That's no problem as far as slugs are concerned - he's fascinated by them. He likes spiders too and enjoys letting them run over his hand.

Flies are another matter, but though he frowns at them disapprovingly and says: "We don't like flies," he'll always add: "We don't stamp on them." The same thing is supposed to apply to wasps.

The trouble is, I hate wasps. I can't get the idea that they should be nurtured. I know they're all part of the balance of nature. I'm sure they must have some vital ecological role to play, though I've yet to find out what it is.

But like most people, when there are too many around and they keep pestering you, then I think a sharp swat is the answer. At least in theory - I hate the scrunch they make so I tend to leave the swatting to other people.

At first, we tried hard while Jonah was with us to follow the rule about not harming any living creature. When a wasp flew into the house, Jonah's dad would do the ecological thing and try and collect it in a tumbler over a sheet of paper.

It's a tricky manoeuvre and often doesn't work - it's hard to get a wasp to stay still long enough in exactly the right spot. In any case he'd put it outside and it'd be back in again a moment or two later, in this warm weather with all the windows open.

Then I got stung. A wasp had settled on one of the sofa cushions and took its revenge when I leaned back. It hurt too.

We had visions of something like that happening to Jonah, as he slept in his cot perhaps, or ran barefoot around the house.

From then on it was zero tolerance hour for wasps. Jonah's dad's quick off the mark with a rolled-up newspaper, and has an unerring aim. He tried to do it when Jonah wasn't around but the wasps seemed to multiply. Before long Jonah was watching with great interest his Daddy's novel way of dealing with the creatures.

His mum made some muttered objections about mixed messages, about undermining all he'd been taught. She was quite right, of course. And she at least practices what she preaches: quite literally, she wouldn't hurt a fly - or a wasp -nor would she want anyone else to do it on her behalf.

The rest of us were indeed giving Jonah quite the wrong message, doing exactly what he'd been told was wrong.

You're supposed to be consistent with children, actions and words in harmony, open and honest. The worst possible thing is to tell a child one thing and then do another. Children aren't born hypocrites. They learn hypocrisy from adults.

It's not a lesson I want my grandson to learn. I'm certainly not proud of it. I feel pretty guilty.

But the next time a wasp's pestering me, I know I'll still be reaching for that rolled-up newspaper, or getting someone to do it for me.

Published: 02/09/2004