WE recently acquired an extra family member. He’s an early riser, which certainly isn’t in the genes; and he likes to sleep under the bed, which is most unorthodox (not to mention dusty).

Visiting hours are between 5am and 7am every morning, as punctual as any alarm clock over a period of a few weeks. The Other Half (OH) became enamoured to the point of giving our new friend a name.

“He’s called William,” he announced one evening. “William Wasp.”

I’m not sure we ever got close enough to distinguish whether William was a wasp or a bee; or Wilhelmina, for that matter, or even the same insect every time. To be fair, I wouldn’t know the difference even if I did.

OH is adamant that William was indeed a wasp, and that everyone can tell the difference – and that to admit otherwise in a column is to open myself up to ridicule.

In my defence, at 5am, bleary-eyed and semi-comatose, I struggle to recognise him sometimes, let alone a buzzy thing with a nasty sting that won’t stay still for five seconds.

A quick survey of the Facebook “hive mind” - see what I did there? - suggested my friends can identify differences beyond the yellow and black stripes. Bees = furry and friendly. Wasps = lustrous and loathsome (but essential to the eco-system). Some supplied pictures which were almost as terrifying as the real thing.

But wasp or bee, why let petty details get in the way of alliteration, or a good story? The name stuck; William it was.

Each morning began with the sound of that tell-tale buzz. “Morning, William,” I’d murmur or, depending on my mood, I might growl: “Shaddap, William!”

He’d sail blithely through the open window and crawl over the top of the curtains. He was especially keen on my side of the room, perhaps because it is, shall we say, rather busy. He’d buzz around for a while, before dropping down under the bed with a sudden, deathly silence.

This routine left us mystified. I did a bit of online research, which scared the living daylights out of me, as online research is wont to do.

Was William attracted to a specific source? I checked under the bed for any rotting banana peels discarded by Daughter – negative.

Could he be a scout bee in search of a new nesting place ahead of swarming season? God forbid.

Swarming season lasts from May to July, hitting its peak between 11am and 4pm on warm, sunny days. St Austell beekeeper Steve Vicary informed me that when scout bees find somewhere they like, they go back and waggle their bottom at their mates.

A few days ago, I was putting the rabbits out when I heard the mother of all buzzing – like William, only a lot louder, like a helicopter flying overhead. Thousands of insects materialised over the roof of our house, like something out of a horror movie. “Fuuuhhhh….” I exclaimed, slamming the hutch door shut and legging it back to the house.

Imagine if they all flew through our window to the lovely new home William has identified? Awks. I lifted the mattress, examining it for signs of habitation and gazing with horror upon the huge amount of stuff stashed under the bed, out of sight and out of mind until now.

Steve reassured me I probably don’t need to worry about my bedroom, although I should keep an eye out for the swarm: “It won’t have gone far, maybe a tree nearby.” He and his fellow Cornwall beekeepers are called upon at this time of year to retrieve swarms from unwanted locations like house eaves: “I’ve done two already this season.” He also advises me to check William’s bottom: brown and furry means bee, yellow means wasp.

For all the anthropomorphism, my hospitality was wearing thin, and I determined to tell William there was no room at the inn. This resolve was only strengthened when he (or one of his mates) snuck under the bed and into my 1980s double-cassette deck ghetto blaster.

Said radio no longer works but it was an 18th birthday present from my mum, and I can’t quite bring myself to let go of such a nostalgic piece of kit. I did, however, flirt with the idea of taking a hammer to it in a bid to stop the high-pitched buzz, distressed and distressing in equal measure, of the trapped creature - while equally wondering whether this was Bee/Wasp Hotel Central.

That evening, the hoover came out, the mattress came up and the carpet was scraped clean of everything that might have made it a comfy, sweet-smelling abode for an unwanted tenant.

The next morning, William failed to appear. It looked like the ghetto blaster had done the trick.

Strangely enough, we rather miss him now.