My loathing of spiders is complete (and utter)

My loathing of huntsman spiders (or are they just huntsmen?) is renowned. Grown men have been phoned in the middle of the night to come over and remove them from my sight.



Yesterday I resorted to a text "call out" of various male acquaintances to evict the latest invader.



G. came to the rescue. Rewarding him with wine and a lamb kebab couscous dinner was the least I could do.



The previous night (warning dear reader: gin and Augusten Burroughs are a bad combination when encountering a huntsman of huge proportions), I had been awake for hours. For a long while I had been lying in bed, pretending it would all be OK. Every few minutes I'd flick the light on, but it became too much when one of the spider's ruby eyes glinted at me.


So I upped camp and went to sleep in the lounge room. The King was delighted with the novelty of the new sleeping arrangements and jumped around incessantly. I filled him up on treats to pacify him, but it was like giving a kid red cordial. The three of us were awake: the spider, the King and me.

A bad, bad urban story that ended with G. freeing the spider into the wilds of Darlinghurst. It's now out petitioning the neighbourhood about victimisation.

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