Spiders, right? Spiders, beetles, creepy-crawlies, things that crawl over your hand in the night… Except that maybe the spider that crawled over my hand wasn’t a dream after all. Because the night after, my partner screeched out a great yell from the bathroom, and I went running hell for leather to see which leg he’d broken.
He hadn’t, though. No, he’d spotted a spider on the wall. A great, fat, juicy, gross monster of a spider, that looked like it couldn’t possibly be a UK national, must surely have smuggled itself in under a bunch of bananas. The kind of spider that Brexit was invented for, that’s almost enough to put you off the ideal of the free movement of peoples – and spiders – across borders.
And then he took a newspaper and he splatted it. No searching about for a cup to coax it into, no throwing it out unharmed into the night. Poor Mr Spider, I am sorry all over again! It was a monster, though. But doesn’t a monster spider have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of Mrs Spider? Arachnid rights, people!
What’s it all about then, arachnids of my manor? Spiders of the ‘hood, what’s the word? What are you trying to tell me?
I think maybe I really ought to begin on my serial of ‘The Entomologist and No-Spidersman’. I’m afraid of what might come visiting otherwise.
Image – USGS Bee Inventory and Monitoring Lab, public domain.