Bloody things.

I’ve managed to go a year without having to deal with them and suddenly they are bloody everywhere. I hate the little buggers. In my twenties, I think I would have termed myself arachnophobic. I would literally not be able to move if I saw one and just screamed, frozen to the spot.

Having children forced me into the it’s fine — it’s only a spider school of thought, but I still can’t bear to go near them. If I squint, so as not to look at hem directly, I can just about Dyson them up, on full extended nozzle (unwillingly, I might add; I have strong Buddhist tendencies and wish no harm to anything, but I just can’t bring myself to go near them). Of course, when I was married it was always my husband that dealt with them. Now it’s down to me.

To make matters worse, I was doing some yoga the other morning and while ‘relaxing in child’s pose’ I felt a tickle on my face, sat up and there was a bloody great spider scuttling off of my yoga mat. You can imagine my reaction. I mean, f**k — it was ON MY FACE and then ran off with my Zen.

I have tried to use this experience therapeutically and have told myself that despite having had a spider ON MY FACE, I am fine, nothing has changed and this should help me get over the whole eight-legged fear.

I will try to make it my new mantra: *spiders are my friend, spiders are my friend…


*they are not.


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