I did quite the strangest thing the other day. I was wondering around the house, chatting to my Dad on the phone and trying not to kill myself on the elaborately designed Power Ranger boobie traps Finley constructs, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a spider as big as my hand clearly about to make herself comfy on my powder pink velvet cushion.

Now on any other day this would have brought on the screaming abdabs, a safe perch on top of the dining room table and maybe an emergency call to the fire service (it’s any excuse these days!). But, (and heres the thing), plainly my  innate fear of things with hairy legs had  took a holiday on this particular day, because without further ado, still engrossed in my Dad’s theories on all things HTML, I leaned over, picked the spider up with my BARE hands and carried the little blighter into the garden, took the opportunity to dead-head the magenta rose bush while I was there and then went inside  to pour myself  a glass  of blueberry juice.

Three hours later in a case of delayed shock, I keeled over  in total horror. Oh. My. God. I carried a (watermelon) spider! I touched a spider! I risked having the yukky, hairy little thing run down my blouse and make itself at home in my knickers!!  Plainly I momentarily lost my marbles and who knows where this kind of  bravodo could lead. I’ll be leaving a slice of ginger cake out for the mice next, buying myself a snake and holding flea races on my Egyptian  cotton sheets. I’ll be the talk of the neighbourhood. Little kids will gather outside my house to catch a glimpse of the Spider Lady and I will give up washing my hair so I  don’t disturb the nits.

Mind over matter Miss May. Mind over hairy, crawly matter.