I’m a fan of horror films: they remind me that things could always be worse, and if everything goes to pot I’m safe in the knowledge that I haven’t yet had to saw off my own foot. My late night decision to watch Mia Farrow and her fabulous pixie cut get knocked up by the devil always comes back to haunt me though: anytime my best friend abandons our place of residence for the week I’m left feeling like Drew Barrymore and the remains of her burnt popcorn.
Sure, there are perks to being in the house alone: just this morning I peed with the door open and danced around the kitchen in my underwear listening to Demi Lovato: I’m sure the neighbours loved that. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet developed a fool-proof plan to deal with the killer spiders that everyone on Facebook insists on posting about multiple times a day.
I’ve tried almost everything, from locking said spider in the kitchen and deciding this is the month I’m going to go on the ‘I can’t get to the fridge’ diet, to jumping over the sofa, screaming and hoping the mere sound of my voice sends every spider in the vicinity running for miles: nothing seems to work! I’ll just have to implement the only spider capturing method that’s ever really worked for me: asking a stranger from the flat upstairs to do it instead: Neve Campbell would be so proud.