Eency Weency

I was at my desk, humbly pouring over some notes on asbestosis, when I heard a scratching sound coming from behind me. Expecting to find a playful cat, I swiveled round on the office chair only to find a gargantuan spider! The brute was crawling over a salad bowl – a gift now bubble-wrapped and forgotten about in the office clutter. I yelped and ran out of the room dusting myself off vigorously in a reflex attempt to rid myself of its hideousness. But had I really seen it? Sometimes the candle light plays tricks with one’s eyes. I re-entered the room and resolvedly threw my shoe at the vacant salad bowl with a satisfying ‘gong’, but there was no spider. As a safety measure I sprayed a ring of Dyroach (a brand leaving little up to one’s imagination) around the desk separating my half of the room from his. Without a Dyspider on the market as yet, one simply has to make do.

And so I continued to pour over my notes with stilted apprehension, ever conscious of the abyss behind my swivel-chair. And then the scratching returned, or had I simply imagined it? Exploding out of the chair with fear I find the beast once more! Perched on the rim of the ridiculous salad bowl, it waits and watches. God it must be big enough to eat babies, no, children – it is vile. And how dare it have so many legs – I get by with two. This is no catch and release stream. I grab the trusty Dyroach and blast his insurgency with a satisfying ‘Pssst’. I hate spiders.