Spider time

September means spiders. I have a deep respect for my eight-legged friends, unlike my mother who shuddered at the memory of walks in woodlands where trees were joined by cats'-cradles of webs, each with a swaying occupant at the centre that was, in my mother's words, 'wearing its striped football jersey'. I still don't want too close a contact with them, though. They can run so fast, and it might be up your leg or down your neck!

Last night, I entered the bathroom, performed my ablutions in a relaxed state, winding down towards slumber, a state that was abruptly broken when I reached for the light switch and almost came finger to striped jersey with... IT. It was a cool, nonchalant example of an arachnid. In fact, it stood on tiptoes, swaying slightly, eyeing me with all eight of them. I eyed it back, crept out, closed the door and found a torch. Well, if I went in there during the night, I didn't want to touch it. It might be sitting on the doorhandle by then, like the wasp that stung Mr Grumpy last year. I mean, who would expect a wasp or a large spider to be on the handle, for heaven's sake? Worse, I didn't want to squidge down on it with my naked foot. Uggggh!

But when I went in for a wee at three, there was no sign. Had it gone under the door and through the gap beneath the adjacent door - my bedroom? I stumbled back, switched on the light, searched on and under pillows and duvet, but phew, no sign.

This morning, into the bathroom I went again and there it was in the bath. I made a mental note to rescue it in a glass after breakfast but Mr G got there first. He didn't even contain the beast. He had it sitting on a piece of kitchen towel and chased me round the kitchen with it, the sadist. No wonder I get indigestion so often. Fancy getting spidered in the middle of one's toast and marmalade! It's now out in the cold, but I feel sure I can hear a tiny tapping of eight feet on the patio door and a sibillant, pleading whisper of, 'Pleasssssse let me in!'