If the dictionary contained pictures, directly underneath the word ‘pussy’ would be images of a vagina, a cat and yours truly. This past week I’ve missed dinner, locked myself in my bedroom and actively avoided showering until absolutely necessary, all because of a house spider.
Here’s a run-down of the terrifying evening I finally met my match:-
Step 1: Spot spider. Run out of the room screaming, hyperventilating and in floods of tears.
Step 2: Consider my options. As I can’t force my father to make the 50 mile drive to kill the spider, the most obvious plan of action is to text my best friend to find out when she’s home to dispose of it herself: I’m the brains behind the operation, not the brawn.
Step 3: Realisation: she’s not coming home tonight. At this point I cry again, fully aware that I’m still ten years old and am being held hostage by a bug the size of a kiwi fruit.
Step 4: Try to make a move. This has the same success rate as when I try to make a move on a guy at a bar: very low. I slowly walk to the spider-infested room with intent to throw a thesaurus in its direction but instead decide to cry into the tub of ice-cream that I’ve pulled out of the freezer.
Step 5: Move house.