I remember the day, decades ago, when I discovered an enormous spider in the kitchen of Anthony’s house. Anthony was milking the cows and his mother, who we all called ‘Gar’, was having her afternoon nap, and I was trying to get the lumps out the white sauce I was trying to make on the Aga, to mix with the tinned salmon. I was nineteen and, even though I’d lived in Papua New Guinea for three years and I wasn’t afraid of spiders, I thought it best if I killed this particular giant.
So I found the fly spray and used almost the whole can to crumple the spider onto the kitchen floor. It died simultaneously with the white sauce which I only just rescued the Aga from (another story).
When Anthony came in from milking, I told him about my heroics proudly. He was aghast.
Anthony: You killed Martha?
Me: What do you mean?
Anthony: Martha is our pet spider, Jules.
Me: Oh no, I’m so sorry.
Anthony: Mum will be devastated.
Me: But you didn’t tell me you had a pet spider. Why didn’t you tell me?
Anthony: Where is she?
Me: Your mum? She’s resting.
Anthony: No – where is Martha?
Me: I’m so sorry but I put her into the outside rubbish bin. (I begin to cry).
Anthony: Jules – I am kidding!
Okay, so over 35 years later, I am sitting next to Anthony in the nursing home and he is boringly slumbery, so I put my face up close – nose to nose – and shout “Wake up!” His eyes open but he doesn’t focus. I keep my face close to his and all of a sudden he launches up in his armchair with an unexpectedly loud “BOO!”and nearly head-butts me.
Me: You scared the hell out of me, Ants!
Anthony: That was the desired effect, my dear.
jmgoyder 