Yesterday we had a guest. The guest was a quiet guest, perhaps a tad sleepy, certainly not particularly hungry. And the guest didn’t like to bounce around and make a fool of himself. The guest was in my living room when I got up to feed the cat at some ridiculous hour of the morning, was still there at eleven[ish] when I pointed it out to The Blokey, had not moved after we’d been out for hours, and had obviously fallen into a deep slumber by the time I went to bed at some ridiculous hour of this morning.
The guest had decided that enough was enough by the time I got up to feed the cat at some less-ridiculous hour this morning.
Oh, but that’s super! No more guest! Nobody to keep a wary eye on! Nobody to entertain!
Well yes, it would be super if that guest were not some freakishly gigantic huge-bodied, hairy pencil width legged, monstrosity of a spider. Because said guest has presumably decided that sitting in an unreachable corner of the ceiling [with a tellybox, woofer thingy and surround speaker saving it from an inevitable death (and I would have sucked it up the Dyson if I thought it would fit up the hose-thingy)] is no fun anymore and it wants to play the I’ll hide and they won’t know where I am for about three days until I suddenly run across the living room, making that six foot something of a blokey scream like a girl and the cat cower behind the settee [honestly, she’s the wussiest of wussy pussy cats] game.
And I’ll have to be the grow’d up person who gets rid of it [all the while shuddering and sweating and squealing like a pig].
I can cope with little teeny-weeny money spiders. I always imagine them as having cute little bubbly personalities, rushing around looking for nice folk and then proclaiming Oh, he looks nice, let’s make him happy by letting him wave us around his head a few times in the belief that he’ll become wealthy! I don’t even mind those spiders with the tiniest of heads and the amazingly long legs which are no thicker than a strand of hair. They always strike me as being a bit dim, but quite nice. It’s those spiders that are either the size of a ten pence piece [and think it’s fun to bite people on the neck whilst they’re sitting minding their own business in a car (but nobody believes me)] or the variety that are so big and hairy you just know they’re menacingly evil and want to pounce on you and eat you all up
[my first memory (nearly a whole lifetime ago) is of an enormous hairy spider under the radiator in the dining room (nobody believes me), and half a lifetime ago a spider – that was as big as my hand – refused to let me leave my bedroom and ran out from under the wardrobe everytime I made for the door (until eventually I was saved from certain you’ll never leave this bedroom again ha ha inevitability by the baby brother, who then told mumsy that i was scared of a piddling tiny spider, so now nobody believes that story either), and then another time i met a magic spider who could teleport itself from the glass it was trapped in … *sigh*]
yummy-yummy in their hairy bloated tummy.
But at least when it was on the ceiling in the corner I knew where it was. I may not have liked it, but I could keep an eye on it. Now I shall just be imagining it stealthily creeping up on me, climbing up the back of the settee or running across my bare toes. And I shan’t be able to enjoy my living room …
Tsk. Bloody eight-legged hairy motherf.uckers.
please God stop the spiders coming in my house to gobble me up, ta xxx Elsabeth