There’s an age-old question that has taxed the minds of history’s greatest thinkers: who would win in a fight between a bear and a gorilla? (Or endless variations thereof). Well, we had our own version last week at Corner Cottage – and it’s done nothing to satisfy that ancient question.

I may have mentioned in past ramblings that Braidwood has had a problem with European wasps. Concerned posts appeared in the local Facebook group and traps appeared around town. Much conjecture ensued – where was the motherlode? In what dark, humming labyrinth did the wasp queen conceal herself?

It was something that affected my own scientific researches: as I would stalk a brown butterfly of one kind or another, a bully in a black-and-yellow striped jumper would heave into view, clearly on mischief bent, and menace it into moving on.

We did know we had a nest in the roof, which looked creepily like those egg-sac things from the first Alien movie and became alarmingly agitated once when I shone a torch on it. But with the chills of winter, the internet informed us that the nest was likely to be dormant, and now was the time for getting rid.

We also had at least one possum that had taken up residence in the attic. He/she would announce his/her arrival in the wee hours with a series of surprisingly energetic thumps on the ceiling. There might be a bit of energetic running about up there. Much as the possum or possums were enjoying themselves, it was pretty tedious for those of us below trying to cling to the last gossamer rags of sleep.

But wasps it was that were the main concern. And so it came to pass that I stuck a pin in the yellow pages (or the google equivalent thereof) and called Jim’s Pest Control. Jim sent us Ash, all the way from Queanbeyan, in an impressively kitted-out ute. This was immediately reassuring. But then it dawned on me that although we had just discussed wasps, he really ought to be filled in about the possum situation.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll go up and have a look. Then we’ll decide what to do.” He suited up and disappeared up the ladder into the ceiling, looking very much like Neil Armstrong accessing the Eagle Lunar Module. There followed some muffled thumps that seemed to go on for quite some time. Then he descended the ladder.

“Mate,” he said. “I was looking for something quite small so I missed it at first.” Hence the thumping. “Then I saw it – it’s the biggest bloody wasp nest I’ve ever seen.” I experienced a perverse moment of pride. “And,” he said (for there was more), “The bloody possum is hiding right underneath the nest.”  He recommended trapping the possum first, so the spraying of the nest wouldn’t drive it down the ladder to wreak havoc in our hallway. He’d then have to make the trip from Queanbeyan again the next day (a Saturday) to deal with the record-breaking wasp colony.

Ash – once again sans suit – repaired to his ute, where he opened a series of cunning drawers and flaps. He brought out two possum traps (of the humane variety of course) and set one in the ceiling and one at the gap in the eaves where the possum entrance was. (He also retrieved a variety of Archie’s toys which had been overenthusiastically flung onto the roof.)

Long story short, I checked the following morning and there, looking a bit embarrassed, was a pink-nosed possum. Ash returned and brought the trap down with the possum climbing about inside, and stowed it in the back of the ute. He donned the space suit again, this time with a fearsome spray gizmo in hand, and prepared his ascent once more. “I can’t tell how many wasps are hibernating in there,” he explained. “If they all come swarming out, I’ll shut the hatch and go for a coffee for half an hour or so until they settle down. Then I can finish up.”

But the coffee break wasn’t necessary – slightly disappointing to those of us who were imagining a swarm of angry insects boiling out of the roof and pursuing Ash down the street. As it turned out, there weren’t many wasps in their capacious dwelling – just the queen. Thorough as ever, our man removed the nest – “It’s funny stuff,” he said, “like burnt paper: touch it and it crumbles” – and carted the remains away in seven (yes seven) bin bags.

And there was (excuse me for this) a sting in the tail. “By the way mate,” said Ash, “there’s virtually no insulation in your roof – it must get bloody cold in winter.” It seems the builder who helped renovate Corner Cottage cut a few corners. No wonder we’re burning so much firewood. But at least we know that the massive wasp metropolis in our ceiling is gone and slumber in the early hours will be possum-free. I’m all for living in harmony with nature and all that, but some forms of symbiosis are beyond the pale.