‘Suitable for home freezing (until their little lungs give out)’. I read the £1.99 jar in the supermarket, at room temperature. “There’s no goodness in them, not like honey bees, but they are good roasted,” a voice at my elbow. I turned around. “Aren’t you?” “Cobo Vouvray,” he offered a hand. “From the, on the-“ I began. “France,” he answered. “The radio,” I finished. The wasps buzzed and bounced around each other in the jar like crowds of rioting humans. We spoke culinarily, Cobo and I, for ten minutes whilst I held the jar. When next I heard his cookery slot he sounded different, hyper-real, and I could not stop thinking about the bags under his eyes that he left off his press photo or his trolley full of whisky and crisps. “Freeze them and then fry them,” he advised his listeners. “The cold slowly kills them.” “Isn’t it a little cruel?” I silently asked from far away. Through the radio I could see him shrug. But I didn’t dare take the jar from the freezer.