8 legged freaks

I like to think that I'm a bit blokey; I am a bloke after all. Admittedly, I have done some things in my life that some (who shall remain nameless but sit very close to me at work, but would never read a blog so I could name him...) feel is a bit on the less blokey side shall we say. I played Badminton at a high level until a few years back, I drive what is considered to be a gay icon car, I use wax in my hair and, God forbid, have been heard talking about bodices. Not very manly at all; I guess I'll never be a true Kiwi bloke....

However, there is one thing that turns me into a gibbering wuss and I don't care. Call me a baby, kick sand in my face, give me a Chinese burn, I don't care. If it makes me less a bloke then kiss my little girls arse (damn that'll get some Google hits!). Sadly, it appears that the subject of my fear is a specialist subject of Alans.

When we first moved to NZ, I was assured that there was only one poisonous spider that lived on beaches and was very rare. I have no idea if this is true so facts would be nice, anyone? Little did I know that there is a freakin' house dwelling version that appears as common as net curtains in Essex (very common to those of you who have not been there). Not only is it common, it does have a nasty bite. How nasty appears to be up for discussion but I would quite like to know. All I am told is "it's not fatal" but that doesn't reassure me much as there are plenty of things in life that are not fatal and that still bloody hurt i.e. it's OK the bullet went right through you and damn that shark, at least you have another arm.

My fear appears to have grown over the last years. It all stems back to some bad experiences as a child in Africa but they had been largely forgotten until several years back when something must have triggered them. I have never been fond of the critters but now I get a bit on the cold and sweaty side when confronted. Ms R regularly shouts out "Look Daddy, a baby Charlotte" but no sooner do I hear those words, I start looking for the nearest shoe/newspaper/book/brick. This usually ends in tears as she is a fan of the species and their complete destruction is out of keeping with her thrill at finding one.

To say I give them a wee tap would be a bit of an understatement in much the same way as saying that "That Jerry Collins, he's a bit hard he is". The house shudders when I nail one of the fckrz. I don't whack it so much as obliterate it. If Garfield could see me, he'd be so proud. And this was before I realised that the little bugger could actually fight back.

I am assured by Alan that the little jumping things with the bloody long front legs (that they would use to prise open my ear canal and enter my brain) are completely harmless. I say, you can't be too careful and if you have to get that close to look, you are opening yourself up to some trouble. I say whack now and ask later....I don't want to wound it and piss it off.

Oh, hey a spider.
WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK
Did it jump?
Which bit?