Eight Legs Bad

It is Spider Season again. I have honestly tried not to mind. I know that they are harmless, useful members of the creepy community;live blameless lives, spin exquisite webs, kill flies and, for all I know, empty our bins for us and help old ladies across the road. But each damp Autumn, every spider in the UK wakes up, packs a small valise, and heads for wherever I am living. Apart from the renegade ones who go to Glasgow to sit in the bath of my friend Natasha,  Scotland's foremost arachnophobe. I object to killing them.They don't appear to have the same reservations.They pop out of cupboards, scuttle across floors when lights are low, and drop down from ceilings with no prior warning. My Mother says "They are all God's Creatures, trying to live their little lives".She is right, of course, but then I am a G.C also, and my little life will be shortened dramatically if eight-legged things the size of plump mice keep appearing in that sudden way that they have.

I know they can't help the way they look. They probably look gorgeous to each other. But it must have dawned on the brighter ones that if people generally greet you by screaming in terror and jumping on a chair, you may wish to evolve a bit into something less dismaying.I don't ask much. Just, you know, lose a few legs, modify the beadiness of eye ( do you really NEED all eight?), and perhaps the black hairness could be swopped for pastel shaded fluff? Watch a few Disney cartoons with all those eyes, you will get the gist.Everyone keeps telling me how intelligent you lot are.

I even read "Charlotte's Web" to the Giant Toddler. A piece of black propaganda shamelessly promoting spidery types, it features a delightful, sage arachnoid who saves the life of a rather whiny little pig called Wilbur.She does this by spelling out advertising slogans on his behalf, like "Some Pig", and "Brilliant!" in her web. The exclamation marks must have been tricky. Anyway, the frankly simple farming folk of a Mid-West community are swayed by this wonder, and Wilbur becomes a celebrity instead of becoming rashers, which was the original plan for his future. Then he becomes a film star, and descends into a drug-fuelled life of paid-for sex and debauchery. Not really, that was "Valley Of The Dolls", or was it "Babe"? Although to his credit, the author, E.B. White, does not gloss over Charlotte's darker side. "I am a trapper" she says "All my family are trappers". Yes, they are, and one of them trapped me not so long ago. It had been lurking under a box, and emerged while I was putting my contact lenses in. Half-blind at the best of times, I glimpsed a set of leg-tips investigating the carpet. Looked again, and there was a fully extended wolf spider.  They are the Great White Sharks of the spider world, and don't even bother with  webs, because they are too big and butch for all that. Scared witless, I dropped a lense and made for the door. It got there before me and stopped. We had a staring contest. It won, on account of the extra eyes, and the fact that I only had one lens in. The people who say "Oh, they are more scared of you.." hadn't met this one.Mr Wolf wasn't scared of anything, particularly not the livid quivering creature trying to get past it and flee for spider-free territory. In the end, I threw a copy of Vogue vaguely in its direction;  and, possibly horrified by the Autumn/Winter issue with its frankly spider-ist insistence on two-legged models, the thing stalked off, looking offended. I stood in the kitchen, trembling, and wondering if 10am was too early to have a gin. I didn't ever find the contact lense,either, so Charlotte, your family owe me £50.00.

My Dad was in the army in North Africa, where some fool let him have a rifle. He and a few soldier chums were bedding down in their tent, when Dad noticed a strange dark shadow at the top of the main tentpole. It was moving. "Aha!" thought my father " This looks interesting, I shall poke it with my rifle". So he did, and a soup-plate-sized female spider fell down,shedding inummerable baby spids from her back. The resultant ruction saw the tent demolished. Harsh words were spoken, and from then on my father had to keep an eye on his own side as well as on Rommel's.

I don't mind any of the other things which many people find repellent,and have picked bats out of my cardigan with equanimity. I can humanely dispose of earwigs, beetles, wasps, the lot. I will calmly re-house the idiotic bumble bees that sometimes turn up and smack themselves soft by repeatedly flying at the window panes. I positively welcome applications from mice, who are currently under-represented, due to the presence of next-door's mog. So can I suggest that I undertake to provide a speedy and efficient removal service for any unwanted infestations of creatures great and small that others find challenging? In return, I wish for the services of a Spider-Whisperer, who can be called upon to explain to the burgeoning arachnid population in my flat that they would be happier elsewhere? I have my own net, and will travel.