It seems to be confession time.Yesterday, I told you I don’t like fairground rides and today I trotted over the lovely site 20 lines or Less to post my offering, as has been my morning ritual for the last week or so, and of course I couldn’t resist taking a look at the other posts too. And I discovered something rather horrible. And amazing. But still horrible. They were great photos, but they gave me goosebumps. What am I talking about? It’s a little hairy out there…. That’s what I’m talking about. And if you can’t bear to click, I will whisper – a spider. A great big hairy huntsman spider.
So, as I said, it’s confession time. I don’t like spiders.
I can cope with those diddly little ones, the money spiders, and I don’t get too fussed if they are a bit bigger. I get a glass and a piece of card and put them outside in the garden, expecting them to run away, never to return. I bet a fair few turn around and zip straight back in when my back is turned though. It’s the biggies I don’t like. The ones that stare at you, tapping one of their fuzzy feet, as if to say, you may be big, but you’re not to big to frighten.
As it happens, I’m not too keen on bugs in general. And yet I am married to a man who is. That’s his arm up there in the photograph and yes, that dragonfly is real. He found it in amongst his plants and tore off the leaf so he could hang onto it for a few precious seconds before letting it go. He loves creepy crawlies of all descriptions, spiders, even snakes and we used to have a couple of those. Not all his fault, our son wanted them for his birthday and I was outvoted. So two garter snakes, Bonnie and Clyde, came to live with us for a while. And since they ate what are euphemistically called pinkies, or baby mice to you and me, we had to keep a ready supply of those too – frozen. In my freezer, in my garage. I didn’t go to the freezer for two years.
Wow, you may think, isn’t she tolerant? Amazing. (Which of course is true). However, I have a bug of my own. It’s called writing. And it interferes with the household arrangements far more than any wee beastie ever could. Yet my family put up with me and my odd habits, my computer hogging. Lugging notebooks around and scribbling at odd moments, my erratic sleeping and eating tendencies, into which they sometimes find themselves catapulted. ‘No, dinner’s not quite ready. I just have to finish this’ syndrome, which might mean dinner is still at the supermarket and it’s omelettes again.
So you have to be tolerant to live in this house.
And if you’re not, you might just find yourself getting an unflattering mention in my books. Or even on my blog.