Maybe I Don’t WANT Rescued.

spiderThere’s a spider in the bath.

I spotted him this morning: and he spotted me.

‘Mate’, says I. ‘This is the Tub of Doom. No sense pretending to be a hair. Bigger spiders than you have tried and failed to escape’.

He looks at me with disdain. Doesn’t even blink, (in part, because he has no eyelids, but only part).

‘Fine’ says I, ‘your funeral’.

Two hours later.  He’s still there, huffing and puffing round the plughole. Little bit sweatier I notice.

I try again.

‘What makes you so special, Herman?”

(He’s definitely a Herman. I’m a spider whisperer)

‘You know and I know, that without my help, you’re going nowhere’.

Still nothing.

I sigh. I’ve seen his type before.  Thinks he’s spider-Hoff because he once caught a fly.

‘I don’t need help’

‘I’m fine on my own’.

I reach down but he flattens himself into a crevice. I leave him to it.

2.15. This is getting old.

He scrabbles upwards. One two three: heaaave and the little hairy legs spin.  For half a second he hangs, triumphant.  Then slides back down.

He tries again.  This time, catches his ankle on a soap flake and lands on his back.

We look at each other and one of his legs starts to shake.

I stretch out my hand and carefully scoop him into my palm.

Now he’s petrified, shrieking in silent protest. He’d rather die than accept my help.  But I want him to live.

I set  him in the garden and watch as he flees.

Back at the web, he’ll tell his mates how he fought A Human and won.

Yes, Herman. You’re the Spider-Daddy.

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