Little known fact, beloved reader of nonsensical ramblings o' mine: I'm bloody terrified of spiders. Honest to fuck, I cannot handle the presence of the little blighters in my life. I'm a frequent checker of room corners on entry, just to be sure of my own continued survival.

Yes, I am aware that Irish spiders are not a life-threatening, man-eating, baby-baiting or badger-slapping bunch, but it is entirely probable that I will die in the throws of some manner of spaz-attack brought on by their being nearby visible. I present the following two exhibits as evidence-

Exhibit A

I once, having completed a hypothermic session of canoeing at a local club, had a long, warm shower featuring the unexpected sighting of a piece of dirt on the back of my left shoulder. Odd. I decided it best to continue the cleansing process already under way by removing said dirt from my person. The dirt had other ideas. It moved. I squealed the squeal of a banshee stubbing her toe on a castrato choir. I flailed the flail of a Parkinson's suffererer having an epileptic fit in a German discotheque while trying to communicate through mime and hand gesture alone that they were feeling a tad shaky. And then I exited the shower, not so much by choice as much as the will of gravity. Lying naked and embarrassed on my back with only the now missing spider to share my shame, I resolved never to wash again.

Exhibit B

The following is a legitimate transcript of an internet based chat consisting, as it did, solely of textual communiques to an amigo. A blow by blow account of my reaction to spotting a creature in my periphery, I assure you that this was legitimate and occurred in the space of probably just under ten minutes. Read on at my peril....
I'm stalking a resilient spider across the room. Pray for me.
It's watching....waiting....
I'm sweating
....barely breathing
Playing dead....badly, obviously. What with all the sweat (I fear it shall form a pool to work as leisure facilities for my arachnid foe)
It's on carpet, right at the join
All I've got is newspaper
It's like he knows!
He's Switzerland right now....with diplomatic immunity. Dear God, are those tiny "diplomatic plates" on his back legs? Is he wearing a monocle!?
He can read my thoughts. I know it.
If he moves, I'm gonna lose my shit....
....
....still motionless....
"Clever girl". If another fucker attacks me from the side while I'm watching this one....
Is he....?....he is....he's doing the backstroke in that ever-expanding pool of sweat. How did he find those armbands?
I need to fetch the Guinness Book of Records. That'll finish this prick!
AH FUCK!
Hyperventilating....he's toast
It was like that seen in Platoon:
There was slow motion, blood, epic music (in my mind) and, of course, the famous "lifting the curtain to flush out the enemy" scene. Some broad was wailing uncontrollably somewhere, and then my face was all wet, mysteriously.

Now he lies crushed under a newspaper to mark the spot.

Let that be a lesson to the rest of you arachnids!
I'm not checking to see if he's definitely dead under there. If he still lives, he is my better. May the atheism God have mercy on all of us.
What if he's just the front-line spider? The scout? The red uniform? Maybe there's more!?
My clothes! Upstairs. On the floor. So many of them....So. Many. Places to hide!

HELP
ME