Be afraid, be very afraid...

Okay, this is a bad situation. In fact it’ll probably go down in my journal as one of the worst moments of my life. I haven’t a clue what to do and quite frankly I’m crapping my self. I need to get a grip, a big grip but the sweat is starting to pour down the collar of my pyjamas and bitter spurts of bile are filling the corners of my mouth.

Okay, deep breath, I’ll sit down here, no, hang on, on second thoughts not on the toilet because then I have a perfect view of it, the creature, casually chilling in my bath. A hairy, mammoth spider with revolting long legs, a blemish on a sea of white ceramic. This spider is so big it has thighs for Gods sake! The floor seems the best option for me right now, as far away as possible, next to the base of the sink decorated in thin, spidery cracks that makes me feel more nervous. I need to take a shower though; it’s an integral part of my daily well being, a reviving sluice to wash off the sheen of a restless sleep. Restless, because I was worrying all night about the big, tedious meeting I have to attend today. So I desperately need to cleanse myself and emerge renewed and energised but this spider, this thing, is preventing me as my shower attachment is fixed to the wall above the bath. I need to get rid of it now, on the double, to get my morning routine back on track, but in all honesty, this is not going to happen. I only have to look at a spider and alarm bells start ringing and every nerve in my body goes to red alert for the tingling, sickening sensation of eight legs gliding over my flesh.

I hate spiders, not because they are repulsive, ugly and possess the potential to be exceedingly poisonous, but because the sight of them turns me into a heap of quivering panic and paranoia. That’s the irony. The walls of sanity start to disintegrate and sometimes, on occasions, these symptoms will be accompanied by vigorous vomiting. This is why I hate them. One minute I’m a composed, erudite and reasonably successful individual, with my own apartment, career, responsibilities and array of stylish designer possessions, the next; I’m a completely irrational freak.

I can feel the tubes in my chest closing up right now as I realise I have no-one to call, no housemate, no parent, not even a friend who can dispose of this menace. I toy with the idea of calling a neighbour, then dismiss the idea as this would necessitate walking past the bath and voluntarily putting myself in close proximity to it. I hug my knees and stare at the side of the bath protecting me from the horror on the other side. Damn, bollocks, buggery buggery bollocks, this is seriously unexpected and not the best way to start a Monday morning. I want a muffin and hot Colombian coffee for breakfast not a shot of undiluted fear and adrenaline. I evidently need a contingency plan for future anomalies of this kind mucking up my carefully timed ablutions.

Raking my eyes around the bathroom offers no help or ideas either, except to remind me to wipe the toothpaste of the taps. My watch is on the shelf along with my beautifully packaged bath products. I can see that fifteen minutes has passed already, leaving me behind in my morning schedule. I should be patting myself down right about now with fluffy towels and liberally splashing on some rejuvenating cucumber astringent.

I’ve got cramp in my leg. Shit, it’s time for me to leave the house and brave the rush hour but I’m trapped. I am actually trapped here, trapped in my sanctuary of clarification. I can’t go anywhere because leaving the bathroom means I can no longer come back in. Basically the spider will win. Victory all round for arachnids, or whatever their proper gross name is. An entire bathroom for him and all his revolting friends to party in. Maybe this is why spiders come up the plug hole, maybe it’s like a reconnaissance mission, send the bravest up then if they return safely the others will follow. A whole army of spiders yomping up and into my bath. Okay, now I’m going to vomit.

This is ridiculous; I’m a grown up. How did I ever get this far in life, how did I ever achieve so much to crumble at the sight of a spider? I never thought I was this scared of them but then I’ve never faced one on my own at such close range. I remember a friend of mine was diagnosed as arachnophobic. She used to work at the Post Office sorting mail and these new stamps came out featuring exotic creatures. One of these images was of a seriously objectionable looking spider with huge fangs and trillions of eyes. It distressed her so much she was signed off sick from work until the stamps went out of circulation. I laughed so much when I heard this story, until I picked up my mail one morning and passed out flat on the doormat.

Time check, yep I should be leaving for work now. At this rate I’m going to be late. Okay maybe I can pull a sickie, but that would look a bit suspect. Everybody knows I’m not looking forward to attending this meeting. Actually a change of plan, calling in sick means leaving the bathroom to use my phone which I know is in the bedroom and I can’t move from here. I need to keep watch in case the hairy bastard tries to climb out and claim the rest of the apartment. Hmm…what to do, what to do. I’m doomed to sit here, crouched in the corner of my bathroom, watching the dust collect and… hey! It hits me, my salvation, in the form of a sour –faced preternaturally aged teenager with an attitude and a habit of raiding my kitchen when I’m not about, the cleaning girl. Oh sweet relief! She can dispose of it. I think she’s due tomorrow but then it might be today that she comes. I dunno, she’s pretty ineffectual so I can never tell if she’s been and I tend to go around and clean anyway. She’s odd because she always wears the most inappropriate clothing for dirty work, like tottering heels that leave circular depressions on my carefully selected Autumn beige carpet despite the fact I’m always asking her politely to remove them before she works. She’ll only take them off when I’m around and I hate being in the flat when she is. She rewards my generosity in giving her a job by sneering at my CD collection and getting the smell of cigarettes and cheap perfume into my furniture.

It’s okay, all I have to do is wait in the corner, by the toilet. I read a human being can go for up to two weeks without food but not long without water. No problem, I have a supply of fresh running water right here from the spout. My eyes rest thoughtfully on the jar of honey and almond body polish sat on the rack. Okay so no food, but water and clean dry towels in case I feel a bit chilly…

The extractor fan is humming. I’d turn it off but that involves moving and this, as my limbs established earlier, is not a viable option. I need a bloody good excuse for not turning up to work. Something sudden, something so bad that I was unable to phone in but nothing that requires conscientious maintenance for weeks later like a limp or fictional accounts of hospital appointments. It’s going to have to be a death in the family, yes, on reflection I’ve never done that before and the chances of any of my colleagues meeting my family are probably nil as they all live miles away. I make a mental note to tell my mother as soon as possible that under no circumstances should she ever call me at the office again.

Okay, what just happened? I must have dozed off. Christ, now I’m cold and my watch says it is late morning. A nagging feeling in my groin tells me I need to alleviate myself but is this possible without looking into the ceramic pit of hell and prompting more bile-inducing responses? The thing is, I know I’ll look into the bath. I can’t help myself. I suppose it’s morbid curiosity or some weird self-flagellating desire I have. So I do look…and look. Big mistake, Errmmmm…The spider has gone. It’s not in the bath, Not. In. The. Bath. geddit? It is no longer there, which means the spider is now on the loose. On the fucking loose. Oh Jesus, What fresh hell is this?!

THE SPIDER COULD BE ANYWHERE! This puts a whole new spin on things as the divisional manager at work always says snidely, his fingers placed together like a temple. It must be roaming around it’s newly acquired home. Checking out the appliances, the carefully colour co-ordinated furnishings and eyeing the varied musical delights of my CD cabinet with it’s fifty million eyes or however many the grotesque thing has, either way, its bound to be a strange number. Then I realise it’s clinging onto the side of the bath with its adhesive limbs and I let out a yelp. A yelp that strangely makes the bathroom door swing open, which scares the living hell out of me so I emit a low inhuman wail and fall onto my knees begging the forgiveness of the big B-movie Mummy spider coming to check on its young.

It’s the cleaning girl witnessing me in my scantily clad torment.

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise any one was here’

She has a mouthful of ciabatta and feta cheese and possibly Kalamata olives. So as well as nicking my food she’s also taking time out to make great sandwiches. It must have taken at least ten minutes to prepare so I’m docking her pay packet.

‘There’s a bloody great spider in your bath’

She turns on the shower head with one hand, gnawing a mixture of pricey grub between her acne scarred cheeks. A quick experienced spritz and the spider has gone from whence it came. I notice today she has on red stilettos. Wiping crumbs from her mouth she assesses me with barely concealed disgust,

‘You look like shit. Oh and by the way you’ve run out of that fancy pine bleach. Just thought I’d let you know, I’ll do the bath with the stuff I brought with me then shall I?'

I nod mutely, clasping my hands around exposed body. She’s still staring at me, towering over me, a bucket dangling from her talons. She stares at me for a moment smirking then spins on a stiletto crushing the life out the pile beneath her.