Dead Spider

The complicit spider is dead. Last night as I was sitting reading on the sofa, she came towards me out of the blue seemingly with great purpose and I froze with horror as I hadn’t realized how terrifyingly big she actually was. Her legs were as long as Carla Bruni-Sarkozy’s and she had a presence that was knowing and menacing at the same time. Had she read my confession about the praying mantis and/or the story about my mother’s shockingly violent crimes of passion towards her ancestors? Did she want real atonement this time? I climbed over several pieces of furniture to avoid putting my toes anywhere near hers and raced to bed.

Several hours later, i.e. early this morning, I found her shrivelled body by the door, with one of her Carlas a few inches away from the rest of her body. The cats must have attacked her during the hours of darkness unless she had been overcome by a gang of giant bluebottles.

An hour later, another huge great spider appeared, this time while I was in the bath, spiralling down the side of the bath at great speed, unable to prevent the inevitable slide into the steaming hot perfumed water. Horrified, I took my cup of Love™ tea, poured the liquid into the bath water and caught the spider in it. I then lay the flannel over the top of the cup and ran bare wet into the courtyard to set the spider free. For a while it lay on the grey stones shrunken, strangely fragrant and immobile and I thought that I must have put a curse on the whole of the spider kingdom. But then the morning sun seemed to penetrate its limbs and without warning it rose onto all eights and tip-toed away into the tomato plants.

Gosh, it really is all excitement here in the country.

After the brief burst of morning sun that dried up all the water from the not so insy winsy spider that had fallen down the spout, a big mist descended from the hills and suddenly drizzle and strong gusts of wind appeared. I felt a strange disappointment that it wasn’t going to be a Mediterranean kind of day after all. I had thought I was in the mood for cicadas, salade composée and pastis. But when it is a Mediterranean kind of day I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know what to wear or how to keep myself out of trouble. You would think that having lived in the Mediterranean for over ten years I would have learned something of the art of staying as cool as a concombre in the heat. But no, I didn't, and I think that this is exactly the kind of summer I deserve. In fact, hurrah for this damp squib of a summer - it's so much more fun dressing up than down - and who wants salade composée when you can have roast chicken and potatoes instead.