The Boys Of Summer
Without Prejudice
It's the last day of Summer, not a leap year so it's the 28th day of February 2015. It's eleven at night and raining outside and I am sweating cobs in my room as I refuse to open the window.
The fly wire has a gap in it and I can't fix it yet. Yesterday two Huntsman sashayed into my room, one at lunch time and I ran for Yvette in the main house. And she came armed with her walk about phone, ( on which she was in talking to her Son) and a full can of Fly Spray.
We had a plan, she made me fetch a shovel. We knew the Huntsman would drop from the ceiling once he or she was sprayed. And it would be my job to kill him or her with the shovel. You should have heard the screaming when as expected the huntsman dropped and scuttled across the kitchen floor. I am sure her Son is deaf in one ear.
Anyway I killed it and sent it off to Werribee in a scrunched up tissue. I know animal rights activists will be up in arms about this but to me the only good Spider is a dead one. I had a Dad that told us to bless them when we lived in Port Augusta when I was about 5. He even named them. Oscar, usually.
He believed that the spiders were good as they ate the flies. My older Sister and I would fall asleep trying to keep the corners of the ceiling where the spiders were in our line of vision. I have never liked them since.
They bite, you know, the Huntsman. I had no knowledge of that until one bit me and I grabbed it through my pyjama pants leg and squeezed the life out of it. Then dropped the pyjama pants to the floor and hammered on my Grandson's door, the same one, ironically who is now probably deaf and begged for his help.
He was staying with me then and was only 14. I am sure he suffered major trauma that night at the sight of his Nanny, in her scungies and a top, hopping on one foot and agitatedly pointing to the bite and not quite dead Huntsman. He grabbed a thong and stomped on it. Spider Juice everywhere. Urgh.
It's the last day of Summer, not a leap year so it's the 28th day of February 2015. It's eleven at night and raining outside and I am sweating cobs in my room as I refuse to open the window.
The fly wire has a gap in it and I can't fix it yet. Yesterday two Huntsman sashayed into my room, one at lunch time and I ran for Yvette in the main house. And she came armed with her walk about phone, ( on which she was in talking to her Son) and a full can of Fly Spray.
We had a plan, she made me fetch a shovel. We knew the Huntsman would drop from the ceiling once he or she was sprayed. And it would be my job to kill him or her with the shovel. You should have heard the screaming when as expected the huntsman dropped and scuttled across the kitchen floor. I am sure her Son is deaf in one ear.
Anyway I killed it and sent it off to Werribee in a scrunched up tissue. I know animal rights activists will be up in arms about this but to me the only good Spider is a dead one. I had a Dad that told us to bless them when we lived in Port Augusta when I was about 5. He even named them. Oscar, usually.
He believed that the spiders were good as they ate the flies. My older Sister and I would fall asleep trying to keep the corners of the ceiling where the spiders were in our line of vision. I have never liked them since.
They bite, you know, the Huntsman. I had no knowledge of that until one bit me and I grabbed it through my pyjama pants leg and squeezed the life out of it. Then dropped the pyjama pants to the floor and hammered on my Grandson's door, the same one, ironically who is now probably deaf and begged for his help.
He was staying with me then and was only 14. I am sure he suffered major trauma that night at the sight of his Nanny, in her scungies and a top, hopping on one foot and agitatedly pointing to the bite and not quite dead Huntsman. He grabbed a thong and stomped on it. Spider Juice everywhere. Urgh.
