We have spiders.

Like other people have … something you’ve got a lot of all over your house.

To sleep at night, I don’t count sheep. I count spiders. And I’m usually asleep before I have to start imagining them.

A couple of days ago I woke up with two tiny spider-bites on my shoulder (you can tell they’re spider-bites, they come in very closely-spaced pairs and stay slightly inflamed for ages). I deliberately put my bed in the middle of the room, away from all the walls, to avoid that sort of thing, but some poor little sucker must have gone abseiling from the light fitting and gotten rolled on for his troubles. (I’m not kidding about the bed, or about the numbers. It’s a choice: an open window and spiders, or a slow death by asphyxiation. And I don’t really mind spiders.)

And this morning as I was leaving, there was a spider hanging casually in midair, a good two metres on each side away from the nearest building. God only knows how, but she’d built a web across the four-metre gap between the house and the bikeshed, so fine that it’s only visible when you look at it sideways, and there she was with white stripey legs and all, waiting for breakfast.

(By the magic of Google Image Search: a photo taken by Else Kramer would seem to be the same kind of spider.)