Last night, the Grumpy One took Chippie into the bathroom to brush his teeth.
And pretty much began yelling for a glass as soon as he got in there.
A spider was crawling across the floor. One of those icky, scary black ones that just make your skin crawl and you feel like they’re about a billion times bigger than they are and they’re about to leap up and rip your throat out.
In all probability, it was harmless. Still, icky, black, freaky and spidery – euww!
Chippie appears to have received his father’s “I’m not killing it, it can go in the garden” gene. Which, quite frankly, pisses me off as it is my belief that the only good spider is a dead spider. I’m coming around a bit and this now applies to huntsmen and any spider that can cause serious injury, illness or death when it bites you. White tails. Red backs. Funnel webs. Those sorts of things.
We have quite a few white tails and red backs around the house, the former sneaking inside and the latter hiding in bits of children’s play equipment, right where you put your fingers to move it when it’s in the middle of the steps and you’re carrying an overloaded washing basket that you can’t see over the top of and a broken body is probably more likely than a bite from a toxic spider.
Anyhoo, Chippie advised me, repeatedly, to “putit inna garden” which I eventually did. Although how I ended up with that task, I have no idea, and I will be complaining to the appropriate body once I find out who it is.
Drama averted. With a top up of my wine and the door to outside safely locked.
Imagine my fear, then, when I’m unpacking the shopping today whilst Chippie heads up to the cubby house and screams. He doesn’t cry, or yell, or say anything coeherent. He. Just. SCREAMS!