I spy with my eight eyes

There is only one thing more painful than childbirth and that is spending the night with a spider.

I’m not talking spiders à la William Hurt’s Kiss of the Spider Woman or Tobey Maguire’s Spiderman. No, not that kind of a spider. Nor am I referring to those teeny weeny super-poisonous ones either – the black widows or card-carrying violin spiders. Those are easily squishable.

I am referring to one of those hairy, scary humongous ones that appear from nowhere and makes itself at home on your bedroom ceiling, sussing you out with eight beady eyes. When you bravely shine your torch in its general direction, those eyes shine like green robots on a dark and lonely night.

“Oh Grandma, what big eyes you have. All the better to see you with my child…”

To make matters worse, Spidey is sort of hanging upside down, as well. With only some (not nearly enough) of its sticky little spider paws keeping it from plopping down onto your bed. The old Scots had a special prayer for moments like these: “From ghoulies and ghosties. And long-leggedy beasties. And things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us!”

I certainly wasn’t delivered.

Each time I looked, Spidey was still there. It became my ‘long night of the soul’ with Spidey outsmarting me all the way.

I tried Doom. That made him stronger and angrier.

I spoke to him. Lots of eyes yes, but unfortunately no visible ears.

I consulted Mr Google who had some weird ideas, but none that would make a spider pack its bags and leave. No such luck.

Well, I fell asleep shortly before Wayde van Niekerk made South Africa proud. When I finally woke up, Spidey was gone, probably to go celebrate with a few flies.