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| Because pictures of large spiders hurts me, lots |
This is written in light of the non-pregnant Ray's blog post over at Daydreamer.
It is indeed the time of year when Harry K'Nydd roves across the shag, ambles across the textured vinyl or worse still, creeps menacingly across the porcelain cleansing stations.
The simple fact is, and to echo my mate Ray, I can't bear the things. Not only can I not bear the things, but I can't bear them alive, dead or a century after desiccation. I can't bear pictures of them, and the word itself makes me shudder.
Why is it that arachnids make late summer the moment? I know that in the next few days, I am going to know before I see and see before I comprehend the presence of a house-spider who is shuffling behind a piece of furniture. Those house spiders, you know, the ones with the knobbly knees and reticulations on their thoraxes, not to mention the tattoos and tastes in hard-rock - they are the worst. They know the places to hide and lay in wait too - at the foot of stair-risers furthest from the step-edge so that you know you have walked past them a dozen times before noticing them. Or just under the settee, less than an inch from your corn-plasters. Or worse still, in the bath after you have locked yourself in and cannot escape without becoming guilty of exposing yourself in front of your mum.
When I say frightened - I mean it. I see a spider of any dimension larger than sub-atomic and my sight momentarily blurs, I sense myself recoil and step backwards, I know I hear a booming sound in my ears in the same split-second and I am left in a state of turmoil for hours. I will feel nauseous, agitated, and frankly pitiful. I hate bloody spiders.
Which is a problem for a man who frequents churches. Big problem. In my last ecclesiastical gaff one morning afore a moment of prayerfulness, there was a carcass of a spider that was both huge and so old that it was pure white. It had fallen from the ancient roof to the floor below and lay their like Caspar the Unfriendly Spider Ghoul. I didn't know what it was to begin with and I was less than delighted when I only realised after I got close. I nearly barfed. I do not like spiders. I am scared of spiders.
There is hope though. I retain a daddy-long-legs in each room when they appear not because I like them because I certainly do not - but because in a death-match spider-a-spider, the Spindly Spice of the Arachnid world will out gun and kill the hairy freaks that serve only to torment me in September.
Shudder.
However, as a generous man, I will still show the vile creations in their best light. Enjoy.
Spider mom from Amprods on Vimeo.
