Never, ever assume anything with a spider – just splat it!
Society is split into two different types. There are those who, on spying a spider, gently, almost lovingly, place a cup over them, slide a piece of paper around the top, and then carefully drop the creature out of the window so it can resume its happy life spinning webs.
The other half deals with a spider like I do – pick up a shoe and smack it as hard as possible, go to the bathroom and grab toilet tissue to wipe away the mess left on the wall.
In my case I then – on the off chance the spider has somehow survived my attack and is planning to climb back out of the toilet – flush the loo at least seven times to ensure all traces have disappeared.
I then return to the wall and wipe away every last trace of squashed spider because I have this irrational fear that any other spiders in the vicinity might be able to sense the squashed spider juices and come flocking to seek revenge, like a scene from some sort of terrifying arachnid horror movie.
It’s important to say I know what I do is wrong. I am ashamed of being a spider assassin and I can sense you shaking your head as you read this. I don’t blame you, after all we should treat all the animal kingdom with compassion, though I challenge you to maintain that view if you’re stuck in a confined space with a crocodile.
But I can’t help it. Spiders fill me with fear. They look so creepy, with all those legs and the way they try to stare you out – just stood there halfway up a wall, saying, ‘yeah, I know I’m freaking you out but you’d better get used to it pal, I’m going nowhere’.
I can’t rest until it is gone and as I’m not brave enough to catch them in a humane manner. I take more direct action and bash their brains out.
When I told my mother I was writing a column about my homicidal crimes, she begged me not to, for she is convinced a large group of protesters will come to my house waving placards and chanting ‘Justice for Spiders’. However, as I then pointed out, the reason I do what I do is because of her.
Since I can remember she has, on spotting a spider, stalked it for 25 minutes, like a big-game hunter tracking a rhino, before pouncing, usually wielding one of her Clarks’ ankle boots, her choice of weapon for a spider’s execution.
Naturally, having observed her doing this for years as I was growing up, I treat spiders the same way.
I clearly take after her and not my dad, who didn’t have a problem with them. I remember once, two huge spiders appeared on his bedroom wall, right above the head end of the bed. Instead of getting rid of them he christened them Pinky and Perky and left them there for a week before my traumatised mother could take no more and got her trusty ankle boot
Instead of getting rid of them he christened them Pinky and Perky and left them for a week
out.
I write all this because last Wednesday, in the early hours, I went to the toilet and as I shut the door behind me, came face to face with a huge spider – and I mean huge; it was at least the size of the palm of my hand and had teeth so big it could have taken down a small dog.
I went into battle mode, picked a toiletry item with a very solid and flat surface (a tub of Aveeno Intensive Relief Hand Cream) and with great care took aim. My aim was good. I splattered it, cleaned up and returned to bed.
The next morning I mentioned what had happened to Mrs C. ‘That makes sense,’ she said. ‘I saw a couple of big spiders running about on the doorstep yesterday morning.’
‘What?’ I gasped, astonished she could be so blasé. She may as well have left the door open and put up a flashing neon sign saying 'all spiders welcome here'. ‘Why didn’t you tell me,’ I added, ‘so I could sort it out?’
‘Well,’ she replied, ‘I assumed they were going out’.
I was a combination of stunned and furious. ‘Assume? ASSUME?’, I exploded. ‘Are you insane woman? Never assume with spiders.’
It’s going to take me a long time to forgive.