Overlord of the Flies

We've had a few additions to the household lately, a mob of squatters making themselves at home in every available spot where they can hang their hammocks of death waiting for their next unsuspecting victim to stumble blindly into it.

It's a true story, it happened to me, although I managed to escape (barely) with my life.

I'd noticed several urban migrants establishing themselves between the porch posts, working hard to craft their incredibly intricate and expansive webs,  then gyrating like a drunken pole dancer at the faint twang of a thread from an errant bug as it flew into dangerous airspace.

I didn't mind so much, as I'm not a big fan of flies, and certainly not mosquitos, and I'm sure I've mentioned my terror at the thought of coming face to face with a flying cockroach.  And so I was comfortable with our symbiotic existence as we enjoyed watching the sunrise over coffee and solved the daily Wordle together to the sounds of the neighbourhood awakening.

Until tonight that is.

It's not unusual at this time of year for many of us to get ourselves sorted for the spending season by pre-ordering gifts for family, friends, pets, and stockings (Santa's Not-So-Little Helper 🎅), and since I had so competently recently installed a new parcel-friendly mailbox in the fence, this necessitated frequent checking to see whether the parcel-fairy had been.

Having mastered the Matrix-Reflex backward bend to avoid dear backyard Aragog when turning the pool filter off each night in the dark, I'd possibly become too complacent with his bigger, fangier, relative in the front.

I'd become quite accustomed to accessing the mailbox from the right-hand side to avoid a face full of hairy-legs and fly carcasses, but little did I know he'd decided to add a side extension to his webby dwelling.

'Barrrgghh!' I felt the sticky threads wrap around my high pony tail (we had no electricity this morning, this was my 'no wash' hairdo) and immediately froze - arm outstretched towards the mailbox. 

Was it already too late,  was I unexpectedly prepped for Ascot with an eight-legged, tan and white fascinator pinned atop my do?

Should I hurriedly retreat and do the traditional 'OMG I've got a spider in my hair' dance with full frenzied rapid hand movements, hoping the kids would prise themselves away from their screens for five minutes to come to my rescue?

What about my package in the mailbox?  I didn't know for sure if there was one in there, but what was the bigger sacrifice?  Being wrapped in web and having the life-juice drained slowly from my body, or being deprived of the opportunity to bask in the feelings of the joy of giving?

Dilemma 🤔

When one is in these situations, we tend to regress to our reptilian brain (I know about this, I learnt it back in first year psychology last century) and we go into fight or flight mode.

There was no way I was going to take on this beast, I mean I only had two fists, and he had eight - imagine if we were up against one another in the ring, I'd be all about the gloves up protecting my face while ducking and weaving his jabs, meanwhile he'd KO me with a left hook from one of his other many limbs!  Without a doubt, I was going to end up as Uber Eats for old mate Spider Ray Robinson 🥊🥊

I'd come this far, I'd just have to do the snatch and run and hope for the best 🤞

Summoning up my courage, I let out an almighty war cry of 'Raarrrgghhhhhh' (do spiders even have ears?) and threw open the back door to the  mailbox.

I'd risked my life for nothing more than a brochure from a real estate agent offering me $900 off the cost of marketing...not much good to me now, now that I was going to be an arachnid apertif -  a mere prematurely  withered, dried up shell, of my former squishy self beyond the help of a collagen infusion and my property would be sold at a bargain price as a deceased estate.

But let's not get too dramatic here.

Was there actually a spider in my hair, or was I conditioned to think the worst as a legacy of watching too many low budget horror films in the 80s?

I gingerly ran my fingers through my hair.  Aside from a few sticky strands of web, nothing - phew!

Now many of you would ask 'Why don't you just get a broom, or a can of fly spray and a lighter and evict those leggy bastards?'

Well my friends, aside from being particularly non-confrontational, and a 'live and let live' kind of gal, I have read Charlotte's Web.  There is absolutely no way I could in good conscience unlife a spider without enduring a lifetime of guilt and remorse for my malicious deed.  I mean what if SOME PIG needed this spider in their life?

Anyway, in the meantime, I'm off to research parcel lockers.