AN INCIDENT WITH A SPIDER

One of my new jobs (alongside Dryerupper and Recycle-Binsman) is Chief Spider Relocation Engineer

The job description is quite simple: if and when an arachnid (of any size) is detected in any room of the shared living space, the CSRE must dispose of it appropriately - by which we mean as far away from the flat as is immediately possible.

I feel a bit sorry for the spiders. Up until a few weeks ago, they could happily crawl out of the bath plug without so much as a raised eyebrow. There was no way they could ever scale those porcelain walls, so a return to the dingy drains was their only warm and comforting option. I left them to it.

The ones who made it to the wall (I mean the actual walls, not just the inside of the bathtub) were also treated with a sort of respectful fascination, as though they’d accidentally become exhibits in an art gallery. Occasionally they’d get some expert critiquing, such as, “Wowsers; you’re a big fella aren’t you?” or “Hullo; that’s one cracking web you’ve spun there, little guy. Good job!”

Very rarely were the spiders ever trapped in a glass tumbler over a piece of paper. Very rarely were they evicted to the garden.

Anyway, times change, and with it the general tolerance of things with beady eyes and eight legs.

I was called up to my role as the Chief Spider Relocation Engineer last night, when a false widow crawled out from behind the Fancy Samsung. Presumably, the installation of the new washing machine had  woken it up.

“Quick!” came the cry, “It’s a massive one!”

I leapt into action. True - the false widow was bigger than most I’d seen and she was happily scuttling along the counter above the Fancy Samsung. Within a moment, the cupboard was open and shut and she was suddenly poking the inside of a drinking glass while I was looking for a pizza leaflet or the latest gumpf from the council, to slide under her.

“Can you take it to the bottom of the garden and tip it over the fence,” asked Sammy without a question mark. And so I did.

It was sunset. The tips of the trees were gilded with the last golden rays of sun; silver clouds shimmered behind them. I could only see the tops over the fence, and I was in half a mind to bunk off my CSRE duties and slip quietly into the park. I didn’t do that. I very calmly walked to the bottom of the garden and stood by the fence, one hand pressing the pizza leaflet to the glass that was being held tightly by the other.

What happened next is a bit unclear.

I remember tipping the glass up over the fence, and I remember the spider clinging on as I shook it. What I didn’t expect was that the little blighter might leap back up over the fence and bite my hand.

But I think that’s what happened. I think she flew up from being shaken out of the glass, arched herself back over the fence, and landed on me.

My hand started tingling.

“Do you think I’ll wake up like Spider-man?” I asked Sammy when I got in. I was suddenly warming to the idea of being able to websling everything from the sofa, not to mention swinging round the village and fighting crime upside-down.

It wasn’t long before I remembered that we have different tolerances for all things spidery. It would be a remarkable conflict of interest if the Chief Spider Relocation Engineer also turned out to be Spider-man.

I ran my hand under cold water, dried it off, and tried to forget about the whole thing.