Last summer I was sitting in my favourite armchair by the open window. The fly-screen was away for repair. A movement caught my eye. A massive huntsman spider appeared on the window sill and scampered across the wall. I leapt up, detesting the hairy creatures. I spied it sheltering behind the settee. A good place to squash it. I crept across and rammed the settee against the wall. Wendy’s favourite painting crashed to the floor. Blast, I missed the spider. It ducked out and hid behind the cushions on the settee.
I needed a weapon. Wendy had been vacuuming. The hose had a round nozzle perfect for scooping. I turned the vacuum on and pressed the nozzle behind the cushions. There was a clinking sound along the tube. I wondered where my keys had gone. I tried the other cushion. Oh dear, Wendy’s knitting was vanishing down the nozzle.
The appliance spluttered. I turned it off.
The spider scampered into the kitchen.
I crept after it. It had climbed on the Welsh dresser where Wendy kept her canisters of ingredients. I grabbed the potato masher. It had a flat end perfect for crushing. The spider was nestling behind the canister of flour. I thrust the potato masher onto the canister. The canister was upended, it tumbled to the floor in a pile, flour all over my slippers and trousers. But the spider is unharmed. It skipped behind the other ingredients, the rice, cornflour, cinnamon, the currants. I catch it at the breadcrumbs – but miss.
The monster jumps onto the draining board and scurries straight across to the sink, flopping in. Great. I’ll drown it. I throw the plug in and turn on the water. Damn – it floats, and it’s a good swimmer, eight legs thrashing the water as it races around in circles. It’s watching me and swims close to the tap. I can’t turn it off. Soon the water is level to the draining board and the beast reaches out and steps out. I turn the water off giving it time to escape. It leaps to the floor and tries to get away, its legs slipping over the pile of spilled flour. I smash the potato masher into the flour but miss. It escapes. I follow its little white footprints into the bedroom.
It’s hiding in the bed. I yank off the blanket with such force it envelops me. I feel something scrabbling up my arm. Ahh, it’s under the blanket with me. I tear the blanket off. The creature is dislodged. I catch its backside vanishing back into the living room. I stalk it, my footsteps slow and calculated, my potato masher ready for the strike.
It’s hiding. I sit in my armchair and wait. When it comes out I’ll be ready. Suddenly it emerges on the arm of my chair. Ahh! I leap up and whack at it. My blow prompts it to leap off the chair and onto the window sill. It disappears from view. Outside. I slam the window shut.
Oh, I see Wendy coming up the pathway with the shopping. Suddenly she screams, drops the shopping bags and flees down the drive.
I open the window and call to her. ‘Don’t be alarmed. Nothing to worry about. It’s quite harmless!’
Carindale Writers Group 