Not my weapon of choice. Or, if a weapon of choice...a poor one.
I was in the kitchen, nuking a cardboard pizza, and firing up the kettle for a hot drink with which to soak the cardboard pizza, when...
A friendly neighbourhood spider threw itself from beneath the kettle. Well, if you can stand the heat...you are in your element. And if you can't stand the heat...
Remove yourself from the kettle. And from my kitchen.
The spider found a new home in the curve of the kettle flex. This was, and still is, a tiny spider. Time ticked down. Maybe half a minute until that kettle boiled.
That cardboard pizza didn't cook itself. Oh no. It had atomic help. And a clock to count along to. Four minutes. Was this my four-minute warning?
I really had to rescue this spider from the kitchen's perils inside four minutes. Activate the anti-spider technology!
No. That's no effing good. If you leave a room to fetch a glass in which to trap your spider, your spider will hide behind the door and laugh at you.
I couldn't leave the room. Not unless...I forced the spider onto the vast expanse of cream-coloured wall. The closest thing to an anti-spider tool was...
The soap-dish.
"Fuck, that'll do."
The dish was dry. Or I'd have used something else. I whipped out some toilet paper and annoyed the spider. After a minute of this, the spider went to the wall and started climbing. Job done.
I raced for the back door and unlocked that. Then I returned to find the spider had...stayed exactly where I'd left it.
All the while, the clock of doom ticked down. By now, the kettle had done its thing. But that could fucking wait.
Now I turned matador, or rodeo clown, or nervous ski-instructor trying not to perv on an overly-muscled man's overly-curved wife. Basically, I didn't get to the point. There was much faffing around.
Faff. The spider evaded me.
Toro! El toro!
Faff.
The spider displayed all of the dexterity of a spidery thing, doing all the things a spider can. Like, you know, Spider-Man. Only, closer to the source. Being an actual arachnid and genuine wall-crawler.
I don't know how good the spider was at photography, or if it ever took much payment from J.J. Jameson.
Faff.
The spider evades the piece of paper.
Faff.
The spider thinks little of the vast soap-dish before it.
Faff.
The nuclear clock counts down.
Faff.
It's vital that I solve this problem before the microwave goes off. Why? Purely for the sake of this blog post. No other reason.
Drama!
Faff.
For a tiny tiny tiny tiny creature, this li'l bitch moves like a fucker.
Faff.
And that's confirmed as a minimum bronze for the spider at the Faff Olympics. Now hoping to secure silver with an expertly-executed manoeuvre...
The minutes melt. But the cardboard pizza doesn't.
Faff.
All attempts at dropping the spider into the soap-dish are abandoned in favour of an underhand move. The spider is scooped into the underside of the dish.
I race like fuck for the open back door, leap mightily into the garden, forcefully tap the spider into the foliage, and retreat from the cold night air.
If I'd been in a movie, with a bomb about to go off, I'd have had about three seconds left on the clock. Fourteen seconds. Close enough for government work.
No comments:
Post a Comment