Lots of local shopping tales will follow as I start to get life back on track... but first I’d like to share this little missive on the joys of moving into a very old, listed building, right in the middle of spider season.
Now, as every arachnophobe knows, September is a dangerous month. It’s the time we spend the rest of the year dreading.... the time when all those huge monsters that usually stay tucked away beneath our floorboards come crawling out to terrify us.
Yes my friends, September is spider mating season.
It’s the month when those massive hairy lady spiders (because in the eight-legged world, the girls are bigger than the boys and there’s no such thing as a Gillette Venus) come out of their hidey holes and go parading around your house, like amorous singletons cruising the town’s cheesiest nightclubs on a Saturday night, looking for action.
These girls are on the pull.
So I knew the move could be dangerous and I braced and mentally prepared myself accordingly.
The first couple of spiders that appeared were only medium (on a scale that starts with microscopic and ends with utterly massive and satanic) so I bravely sucked them up with the hoover nozzle.
And when I spotted a couple of smaller ones in two little webs in the kitchen, I decided to try leaving them to it, and even Christened them Fred and Wilma in an effort to make them seem more pet-like.
I was on a roll and thought I’d got it covered, until Saturday night.
After a hard three days struggling to move all my worldly goods I was ready for a girls’ night on the sofa with the cat and rabbit, a glass of wine and a cheesy rom com. Something comforting with Hugh Grant in it.
And I was enjoying just such an evening when one of the largest spiders I have ever seen came sauntering out of a corner and strutted across the living room carpet.
My god, she was striking. She was the spider equivalent of the 6-foot leggy blonde parading across the middle of the night club.
As I levitated off the sofa in absolute horror I could be sure of only one thing.... there was absolutely no way I could allow any spider boys to get their hands (legs) on her. Such a beast must not be allowed to procreate.
In a fit of superhuman bravery I tipped out the contents of the bin and thrust it over her - trapping her inside.
I then dashed over to the bookcase, grabbed the Complete Works of Shakespeare (the heaviest volume I could find) and plonked it on top of the bin.
Phew.
Heart pounding and knees trembling, I then took myself back to the sofa to have a little cry - partly in relief (I’ve got her cornered) and partly in horror (but what the hell do I do now?!).
What I did, of course, was frantically text a couple of my closest friends who are also arachnophobic for sympathy. Being scared of spiders is like a club - you’re either in or you’re out.
And of course the following morning, having re-assessed the situation and decided that I was absolutely not capable of dealing with the contents of the bin, I called in a brave (and definitely non-phobic) helper to tackle Her Ladyship.
I am now living in fear. Roll on winter.
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