A summer holiday in France. Me, my two younger sisters, my father and his newish wife. I was about thirteen, the oldest of us siblings. Holidays were always rough because we had to spend so much extra time with our father who was a constant ball of anger.

His job was a travel writer, which had to be at the bottom of the journalism barrel. He could barely spell. He blagged all our holidays on the pretext of reviewing them and we had to endure obsequious hosts bending over to please him as he complained about absolutely everything. It was mortifying for us children, knowing that we were freeloaders and seeing him behaving so badly. We were in a constant state of fear and embarrassment.

This holiday was a little different. Instead of the usual cruise ships or package hotels, we were staying on a camping ground in the north of France. The tent was huge, very new and modern in the 1970’s, with long zips and several rooms.

One sunny afternoon we sat in front of the tent, trying to avoid interacting with our father. He sat on a folding chair and had filled an empty glass jar with water and sugar, making a syrup. This he poured onto the ground which was made up of small, rounded stones. He gathered a large supply of these pebbles in his lap and waited.

Very soon a multitude of wasps descended on the sugar drenched stones in front of him. He picked up his pebbles, one by one, and started throwing them at the wasps. He was a good shot and hit many of them. He delighted in the killing and broadcast his enjoyment to us, as if it was a normal activity and we should join in.

At the time I thought it was odd. As an adult now, I know he was just a fucking psychopath.