There is a very big possibility that a spider is hiding in my car. I’m not even joking. Today, after months of procrastination, excuses and carefully crafted plausible reasons, I finally got around to returning some packing boxes I borrowed from a friend. As I packed them into my hatchback, a few at a time, a spider jumped off one of them, straight to the backseat. It wasn’t of the size that you’d feel comfortable flattening with your hand, without fear of being bitten. Nope, it was a big one.
“Not in the car!” I thought as I watched it settle into a corner by one of the seatbelts. In my panic I swiped at it with an empty juice box discarded by one of my children – my car doubles as their dustbin, shoe cupboard, school locker, disposal space for unwanted items too important to throw away, like school notes, and sweater storage space. The spider escaped further into my car, unharmed by my futile attempts to get rid of it.
I’m not particularly brutal about killing insects. I do not attack each fly or ant or moth with a can of insecticide, though I have a can in the cupboard under the sink for emergencies. I have an understanding that these creatures also need to make their home somewhere. As an ex kindergarten teacher, I don’t flinch at the thought of removing mother nature’s tiny creatures from my house, to put them in the garden. I have transported frogs from my classroom to the neighbour’s pond in my hands. I have gently edged Daddy Longlegs off the window-sill and outside the window with empty toilet rolls, and I have captured rain spiders in plastic cups and tipped them over the school wall, to make themselves a new life Far Away From Me, all with the eager, innocent faces of five-year-olds watching me trustfully.
But what was I going to do with the spider? I decided to pretend he wasn’t there while I packed the rest of the boxes. As the time grew closer for me to actually get into the car and drive, I realised that this was not such a clever idea. My kindergarten students would be horrified with what I did next, but I sprayed half a can of insecticide under the seats, and on the spot I’d first noticed him, like that would help, and closed all the doors. Then I went back into the house to give the insecticide some time for its magic to work. When I returned to my car, torch in hand, I did a careful search. I couldn’t see the wretched thing. Suddenly my small car, the one that has me mistaken for my children’s au pair because it’s not a gas guzzling 4X4 like the other parents at school drive, seemed very, very big. There are so many corners the spider can be hiding in, there’s no way for me to know if he’s still there or not. I opened all the doors and windows, feeling guilty about my poisonous attack on the poor creature. I’d give it a fair chance to escape if it still could. Another once-over with the torch brought no results.
Then came the next dilemma: to tell others who enter the car about the spider, or not to tell? I opted not to tell. I picked up my kids and their friends, and mentioned casually that the boxes that have been taking up space in the garage have finally been removed. If someone were to come into contact with the spider, I could tell them that the creature must have been amongst the boxes. After two school runs and a drop-off at a friend’s house, the spider has not yet been detected. There was no reason to cause panic by telling of the arachnid after all. How much longer before it makes its appearance?
My 500 Words A Day 