Just Do the Thing You Said You Would (note to self)

Let me tell you what I’ve been up to since I decided I should blog 500 words a day as a warm-up for working on my book:

1. I have started taking a language course on Duolingo. Each day I spend at least 45 minutes practicing to speak Zulu. I’ve been learning to speak Zulu’s sister language, Xhosa, since I moved back to Cape Town a year ago. Unfortunately, I have not found enough free online resources to learn it without spending money. I figured that learning Zulu via Duolingo will help me with Xhosa, and you know what? It’s been working! I’m lucky I have plenty of opportunity to practice. Did this endeavour have to start right at the time I’m supposed to be writing? Of course it did.

2. I’m designing the items I’m adding to my winter wardrobe this year. I do not enjoy buying clothes. Not because I don’t like to wear beautiful clothing, but because I just don’t like what’s in the shops. So, every season, I design and sew a few items to add to my wardrobe. For this summer I made two pairs of shorts, a halter neck dress, a strappy beach dress and a cheongsam. Isn’t now, when I’m meant to be blogging, the perfect time to think of what I’m going to sew to keep me warm in winter? Of course it is. 

3. As a maths tutor, I have a fascination with numbers. I am intrigued by the beauty of maths in nature – the ratios, the symmetry, the patterns. I’ve recently developed an interest in the history of maths, particularly in the ancient expression of units and value. Would now, when I’m supposed to be blogging, be the best time to go down the rabbit-hole of the use of the ancient Egyptian number system? Absolutely!

This is not even a complete list. There are capsicum seeds that need planting, and I might as well try and propagate the macadamia seed I’ve been avoiding planting, because I’m scared it might not grow. And my scarf drawer is a jumble again, it needs sorting out too.

Why do I keep doing this to myself? I teeter a tightrope, tipping between disappointment at not doing what I set out to do and satisfaction with the other things I’m doing. At some point (like now) I know that the imbalance will increase and the threat of falling into my safety net of imposter syndrome will become a reality. What usually happens then is, I waste time doing some top-quality wallowing, then pick myself back up again, and start all over. 

I had hoped this time would be different. That I’d just get on with what I promised myself I’d do. I am eternal optimist, so I know that even if I don’t succeed with getting myself in the habit of writing daily right at this moment, whatever I’ve learned from the mistakes I make now will help me do it better next time round.

But maybe, just maybe, I should swap out the unsteadiness of the tightrope for the consistency of a good old balancing beam that’s no more than thirty centimetres off the ground. 

Other

Isosceles and Asymptote stared at the pyramid in the middle of the sorting floor. It was a jumble of the week’s discarded numbers, waiting to be categorised. Each day, the numbers rejected by the calculators would be collected by the model function, Ellipsoid, and added to the pyramidic pile. Then two members of the operations team would sort them from the pyramid into giant cubes. 

Sighing, Isosceles walked around the pyramid, counting the number of sides.

“Ellipsoid’s been taking the piss lately. An icosagonal pyramid? Really?”

“You know it’s because she’s angry that the higher-ups won’t let her collect the numbers in cones,” replied Asymptote. “It’s a form of protest.”

“What’s their problem with circles anyway?” asked Isosceles. “Is the rumour true, that they’re scared of them?”

“Shhhh!” Asymptote hissed. Ignoring the ‘No Spheres Allowed’ sign at the door, he glanced around the room to make sure no-one had heard. 

“It looks like she used the 20,21,29 Pythag combo,” said Isosceles as his gaze sought the tip of the pyramid, which almost touched the ceiling. “Nice work.”

Asymptote opened the log book to sign in and check for notes. An official letter from the higher-ups was taped to the front page:

“Please note that with immediate effect, whole numbers, rational numbers, imaginary numbers and complex numbers will go into a single category and as such will be sorted into one cube.”

“Again? You see, I told you they have a problem with circles. I’m sure they keep swapping out the whole numbers because their series starts with zero,” said Isosceles. He read the rest of the note. “And we have to come up with a name for them. Great.”

“I’ll re-organise and name the new cube,” Asymptote said quickly, to avoid giving comment on the latest reshuffle.  

Isosceles, careful not to be stabbed by negative numbers or the pointy parts of roots, clambered two thirds to the top of the pyramid and settled down to start sorting. 

Below, Asymptote had removed three of the nine category cubes, and was trying to decide what to label the one that would now house the new group.

“Rational, imaginary, complex, whole,” he wrote down on a sheet of paper. What could he do to create a new word for them?  

“Maybe we should call them Ricow numbers. Or Wimcor. What do you think?” he shouted up to Isosceles, who didn’t hear the anguish in his colleague’s voice. He was struggling to untangle a pi from a square root.

“Crioms, carroms, pants. What does it matter?” he replied.

“Cowhrim numbers? No. Ricowhi. That could work.” Poor Asymptote. He was pacing, nervous that he’d volunteered for this task. There’d be trouble if the higher-ups were not happy with his choice of wording. 

“Isosceles, stop being obtuse and tell me what to call them! None of the names I’m coming up with sound right, and they don’t have any meaning. I need more time!”

Isosceles looked down at Asymptote and realised his distress. 

“There is no category. You can name all the different permutations you want, and you’ll come close, but you’ll never reach the curve. They know what they want, but they’re not allowed to say it. So, we have to.”

“What?” Asymptote looked confused.

“We have to name them Other.” 

Life is a series of stories

I’ve been teaching my grade one to three students a simple storytelling technique since the beginning of this year. Answer the following questions, and in doing so, you will be creating a story:

1. Who is in the story?

2. What is happening at the start of the story?

3. What goes wrong?

4. How do they fix it?

Every Friday is story writing day and over the past few weeks, my students have started to remember the questions that need to be answered, and have started to, at varying levels, understand what I am asking them to do. We’ve also used this format for writing summaries of stories we have read in class.

This morning it occurred to me how much these four questions represent the essence of daily life. Are we not characters in our own stories and in the stories of other people, either playing minor or significant parts? Is there not that moment where a scene is set and then a challenge or problem is introduced?

In the middle of helping a grade one who was in a story of his own – everything was fine until Teacher told me I have to write a story – I realised that our lives are a composite of stories – characters; a scene being set; a problem arising; the problem being tackled in the hopes that it can be solved.

I saw the enthusiasm with which another student tackled the task: choosing characters, changing her mind. Choosing the setting, and gleefully changing her mind once more. I was impressed with the ease with which she solved the problem of creating a story, with the excitement and the light-heartedness of her approach.  

The experience lifted a weight off my shoulders. I was seeing that the fruits of my dogged insistence that this format of storytelling be learned over and over again until it was understood and properly implemented. And I was given a different perspective with which to view the things I have been experiencing in my own life. Every challenge or episode can be seen as a story; a small part of the bigger picture that has a beginning, something going wrong, and a resolution of sorts. 

Instead of seeing my life as a constant battle, I saw it for what it is. In an overall upward trend, there are regular ups and downs. With each challenge being dealt with as it arises, the trend continues upward. Each low is met with a higher high, which keeps the trend in an upward trajectory.

Today I was reminded by my students that the best way to tackle difficulty is to push forward and do what needs to be done anyway, no matter how uncomfortable it feels to do so. The discomfort doesn’t last indefinitely. And I was reminded that playfulness is an essential part of problem-solving. It feels counter-intuitive to be playful in approach when things are going wrong. But sometimes it’s a brief respite from the heaviness of a difficult situation. And other times, it leads to imaginative and out-of-the-box solutions. Either way, it’s doing something good.

Books I Could Have Written in 2019

Exercise and Fitness:

Don’t have time to go to gym regularly? No problem! Just make time for sex.

 

Spiritual:

Meditation as Medicine. The Art of Finding Silence in the Cave of your Heart.

 

Self Help:

Learning Love’s Lessons:
A guide to healing from your abject stupidity in choosing the father of your children.

 

Parenting:

Parenting Teenagers on your Own: Smile, Nod and Pretend You Know What You’re Doing.

Your children are in the delicate stages of moving from childhood to teenagers to young adulthood and it’s an exciting time. They are angry with their father for breaking up their family, and he thinks you have turned them against him. Follow this comprehensive guide on how to fuck things up as little as possible.

 

Being the ultimate PIES queen:
Taking care of your children’s Physical, Intellectual, Emotional and Social Health all on your own. With this concise guide, you can bake your PIES and enjoy them too.

 

Relationships:

Online Dating Strategies: You Do NOT have to kiss a hundred frogs.

 

Psychology:

Overcoming Imposter Syndrome: Yes, you really are that smart.

 

Reference Books:

Unlocking the Hidden Secrets of the Fraction:
A guide to making math magical for Middle Schoolers.

 

Demystifying the Decimal, A Study.

 

Books before Technology:
Increasing your child’s vocabulary in the digital age.

 

Romance:

Of Knights and Numbers:

The Universe conspires to ensure that our heroine meets the man of her dreams – sexy, intelligent, kind and passionate, he takes her on a journey of discovery that heals her from her past. But how do the lovebirds deal with the challenges of being an inter-racial couple in Post-Apartheid South Africa? Pretty well, it seems 😉

 

Sexual Health:

20 Surprising Ways to Strengthen Your Pelvic Floor

 

Entertainment:

Success on the Joburg Quiz Circuit:
A guide to winning those coveted restaurant meal vouchers. Tips on how to: choose your team name; make friends with the Quizmaster; create personality profiles of your competitors based on their clothing; lipread, and much, much more.

 

Master Sudoku is not for Sissies

 

Home Improvement:

How to juggle a household with four cats and two dogs. Tips include: cat-proofing your chairs; getting a grip on dog hair.

 

Cook Books:

They. Are. Always. Hungry.
This book combines the psychology behind preparing meals for hungry teenage cretins with light humour and large doses of wine to come up with easy-to-prepare, no-nonsense menus for your ever-hungry brood.

 

Catering for a sporadic vegetarian, a health nut and a fast-food guru. A guide to preparing three meals for dinner every single fucking night.

 

When He Cooks For You – how food preparation and love go hand in hand. Explore delightful recipes that you won’t ever have to prepare because your significant other is doing so for you.

 

Finance:

How to budget when your maintenance payments are non-existent and you are the only one taking care of your children.

 

The Post-Housewife Apocalypse:
You’ve raised your family. Sacrificed your career to help an ungrateful husband reach his career goals. Before you get kicked to the curb for your efforts, read this guide on how to maintain your worth, while furthering someone else’s.

Another Deep Dark Secret

My friend Adriann recently told me that she simply cannot abide by people having deep dark secrets. Because I treasure her so much, I’ve decided to come clean and reveal to her all my deep dark secrets, one at a time. Adriann, this is for you:

Hey Adriann, remember that time we came over to your house for a long overdue Girls’ Night?

Yes, with the veggie kebabs and the chicken. And that delicious bread.

It was really tasty! We polished off everything. And the strawberries for dessert were perfect.

Yes, it was a lovely evening. But there’s something I need to tell you.

It’s not too serious, really, depending on how you want to look at it.

I mean, no-one was injured. Or died.

I’m glad you see it that way too. It isn’t too bad then, right?

Ok, I’ll tell you.

So you know how I told you I was getting that phone call and I went upstairs to your room to take it?

It was our first phone call before he and I went on our first date. I was so excited, don’t you remember?

I know, it was a very smooth move, wasn’t it. So refreshing after all those smiley face messages and ‘How’s Things’ texts.

Those days in the dating trenches were harrowing! My favourite of all the weird messages I got, was the guy who would have seen in my profile that I’m a writer. His first message to me was: How RU?

No, I didn’t even respond. What would be the point?

Anyway, yes, it is agreed. To have a phone call before the date was a very charming touch. And sexy, actually.

Did you ever share that recipe for the Japanese Christmas cake with the book club group? It was one of the most delicious cakes I’ve ever tasted.

Yes, the one from last year. Okay, okay. Just so you know, I’m nervous about telling you this secret, and I am deliberately stalling.

Because it’s going to completely change your opinion about me.

I’m risking a lot here, but okay. I’m going to have to trust that our friendship will weather this revelation.

No, I’m not being dramatic. Wait till you hear.

Okay fine, I’ll tell you. I was sitting on your bed and we were having our conversation, and things got a little, well, intense.

Yes, you heard me correctly. We were talking about… actually, I don’t remember exactly what the words were anymore.

But one thing led to another and next thing…

Yes, I’m afraid I did.

I’m ashamed, Adriann. I really am. It was a complete abuse of your kindness and trust.

I just couldn’t help myself. Your bedside drawer was beckoning me to open it, and so I did.

And I saw the… ah… you know, the…

So now I also know. Are you upset I told you? Should I have kept it a secret?

You left me no choice, I had to tell you. I’m telling you all of my naughty stories one by one because you don’t like people having deep dark secrets.

 

A Deep, Dark Secret

My friend Adriann recently told me that she simply cannot abide by people having deep dark secrets. Because I treasure her so much, I’ve decided to come clean and reveal to her all my deep dark secrets, one at a time. Adriann, this is for you:

Adriann, remember when we had book club at your house?

No, not the time I couldn’t make it. The time after that. When we got you that nice bag for your birthday.

Yes, that’s right. It was just before you moved to Germany.

Yes, you did a really nice spread. So clever! You made all those delicious sandwiches, and then the way you presented them in the different glass containers was so elegant. A proper high tea.

Well, there are two deep dark secrets I need to share with you about that day.

Yes, two! First off, I didn’t actually read the book.

I know, right? I did such a good job of pretending that I had.

No, it is a big deal. I feel really bad about the lengths I went to, giving everyone the impression that I had read it.

Actually, it’s not so difficult to do. Shall I teach you?

Okay, so first off, when someone is giving their opinion about anything related to the book, you give a general look around the table as if to say, “Really, is that what she got from reading this?” Then you look as if you are considering the possibility and slowly start nodding your head as if you’re coming around to their point of view.

Yes, I’ve perfected it. Works every time. When they’ve finished saying whatever they’re saying, you say, “I hadn’t thought of that, but what you say actually makes sense.”

Oh, you’re welcome. It is my gift to you. Isn’t that what friends are for?

Thank you, that’s high praise, my friend.

The other thing? Oh. I was kind of hoping we didn’t get to that.

No, you’re going to be upset with me. I’m sorry I brought it up now.

You never shared the recipe for the macadamia nut spread with the group. Please send it to me, that stuff was divine. And how you cut the crusts off all the sandwiches? That was class, Adriann. Real class.

Oh yes, there is the other bit I was supposed to tell you. But I have a question for you first.

How did you dip the edges of the sandwiches in sesame seeds so evenly?

Ok, fine. I guess it’s not an urgent question.

So, you know how I was in charge of getting your birthday present from the book club ladies this year?

I’m glad you love the handbag. It’s, quite simply, a work of art. Totally your style, right?  I love it too.

When I say I love it, I mean I have loved it.

What I mean is, I loved it so much I needed to show it some appreciation. And, sort of, break it in for you. And introduce it to the rest of the world. And test it to make sure it wasn’t poisonous or anything like that.

 

I’m so sorry, Adriann, but I used your birthday handbag every single day until I had to part with it and give it to you.

I mean every single day. It got an excellent introduction to the world. It knows how to go food shopping now, and how to behave in a night club. It sits in the middle while the people make the circle bigger and everything.

Did you not notice how comfortably it sits under your arm after you’ve put your wallet and keys and phone in it?

That’s thanks to me.

No, I’m not a horrible person. I just introduced your bag to the world before I gave it to you, that’s all. It’s something to be grateful for, really.

In a nutshell, I just wanted you to know that I didn’t read your book club book, and that I made sure that your birthday handbag was well and truly ready for its life with you.

Oh, so now it’s too much information, is it? Well, that’s my story, and I’m telling you all of my naughty stories because you don’t like people having deep dark secrets.

Word Salad

A veritable cornucopia of sensations awaits the devourer of a word salad deemed worthy of consumption. The secret, of course, is all in the preparation. Ingredients of exceptional quality are mulled over, contemplated, tasted and rated before being selected. Once they are chosen it needs to be decided how they will be cut – julienned or cubed? Mashed or grated? Whichever way you slice it, know that there is no pressure for you to stick to your recipe.

Seasoning is a very important component of a word salad. A main ingredient might come across as dull and bland if not accompanied by zest in the form of complementary companions. An aubergine, no matter how brave in flavour, seems a little rudderless without the support of lemon juice and thyme.

The container in which the salad finds itself is also very important. What is the use of a glorious seven-layer offering if one cannot see its artful construction from the majesty of a clear glass bowl? Perhaps you’d prefer your word salad to lurk in the belly of a deep, dark crucible, inviting its epicure to dive in and find it. Or a light, whimsically crafted receptacle with imperfect edges and painted with swirls of colour, that looks so appetising, as to be devoured itself. You may choose to spread your word salad into a gigantic wooden vessel, confines be damned. Let the gourmand pick through it and select from it what she wishes to consume.

Lettuce not judge the quality of the salad before chewing over its structure. Is it a layered affair? Is the top a mound of crisp new leaves with tart and peppery crunch and a hint of bitterness that makes you curious enough to dig your fork a bit deeper? Or has the salad been tipped on its head, with well-marinated, juicy tomatoes of truth on top that need to be furrowed through to get to the crispy, satisfying finish? Perhaps it is a mix of textures tossed together right from the word go; slices of delight turned with cubes of dismay, tempered with a dressing of tangy yet sweet satisfaction that urges you to gulp the whole lot down in one go.

What one really wants is a word salad that leaves its consumer feeling satisfactorily sated, and not wanting to pull out a takeaway menu too quickly. Don’t be egged on to delve into another salad before properly digesting the first one, even if you still feel hungry. Whichever word salad you choose to chew, take some time to consider the flavours, the ingredients, the seasoning, and form an opinion about it.

While I am aware that this word salad may end up being tossed into a Tupperware container, or worse: an empty margarine tub, and languish, forgotten in the fridge until the rancid smell of decayed dreams reminds you of its existence, know that it was painstakingly, and quite frankly, torturously crafted in the hope of feeding you some titbits of entertainment.

Yorick’s Last Romance

Nobody was meant to know about Yorick’s romance. It was a rather illicit affair, what with him being the court jester and his damsel being the daughter of the esteemed Lord Chamberlain of the court. Indeed, the affair was so secret that only her lady’s fendersmith, Fiolin, knew. He was the one who passed on messages from Yorick, to be delivered to his love, when her fireplace was kindled in the evenings. And of course, her lady’s maid, Mary, knew too, as she delivered the love letters from his lady to Yorick in the mornings. The apothecary, Amos, was in on the secret too, given that he regularly had to dispense remedies for Madam, when she was literally sick with love. As was the horologist, who happened to be setting the clocks at the castle on a day that a mournful Yorick was in anguish over an argument between him and his love. Thank goodness he was on hand to provide immediate consolation.

Who was this damsel, who had captured our Yorick’s heart? What was it about her that made him so weak at the knees that sometimes he was at a loss as to how to entertain the king? If you asked Erik the ewerer, he would tell you it was her lady’s charming way of agreeing with everything Yorick said, and laughing at all his jokes – even the incomprehensible ones. Agnes, who chopped vegetables in the kitchen, opined that Yorick’s heart was truly lost to his damsel because she reminded him of his dear mother, who was a kind-natured, though insipid woman, whom Yorick held in high regard.

Yorick and his damsel spoke often about revealing their love to all, and moving to the countryside to live a life of subsistence farming, tending to cows, hens and goats while raising seven children. They dreamed of defying the establishment by openly declaring their love, and becoming an example to other inter-status couples. Not that it would ever happen…

But what Yorick didn’t know, was that Ophelia, his love, also held captive the heart of another. She had been trying to decide which one she loved more, and was leaning toward Yorick. Her other suitor was far too gloomy and sulky. It didn’t help her in the least that the two men were friends. Indeed, she fretted about this constantly, because she realised that in choosing one, not only was she hurting the other, but that the two would no longer be friends once the truth came out.

As it happens, the truth never did come out. On the night Ophelia had planned to reveal the truth to Yorick, and later in the evening to his rival in love, Hamlet, the two men had decided to dine together with friends at the castle, and neither was going to visit her. She’d heard from her father, who was at the castle attending to the King’s royal correspondence, what a raucous bunch they were, keeping the King and Queen awake with their noisy antics.

Indignant, though secretly pleased at how both men would have to grovel to once more be recipients of her favour, it was only later the next day that Ophelia found out that a tragic, untimely accident had ended Yorick’s life. Alas, poor Yorick, the lessor suitor who had made it to love’s door, was no more.

Yorick’s last meal

Yorick didn’t know it was going to be his last day on earth when he rolled out of bed on 15 March, 1423. Sitting on his cot, he rubbed his left temple, which was sensitive to the touch and appeared to be bruised. Then he remembered how bloody Hamlet had thrown a goblet across the table to Horatio at dinner the night before. The wretched utensil had veered off course when it hit a candlestick, and whacked Yorick against his temple with force before landing in his bowl of vegetable broth, splashing the tepid, lumpy liquid everywhere.

Everyone laughed, of course, with Yorick’s bellow of mirth being the loudest, his cackles at the hilarity of the scene drowning out everyone else. He’d jumped up and danced around the table in mock anguish, grabbing his head and howling with fake pain, knocking over a cleaning bowl and breaking a precious glass. Sitting down again, he ignored the tingling in his head; the woosh between heaviness and lightness at the top of his skull that made him want to close his eyes so that the world would stop spinning so fast. He swayed back and forth in his seat in a way that made his companions think he was still joking.

Feeling steadier now, he pulled his spoon out of his pocket, raised it to the air in his fisted hand, and shouted, “Eat we must, so let us continue!” At which all the diners cheered and noisily tucked in.

The hilarity was forgotten as soon as Polonius entered the dining hall to complain about the noise.

“Our King and Queen lay in their beds in the Eastern wing of the castle, but cannot sleep for the cacophony coming from the dining hall. I demand that you stop forthwith,” he commanded in his whiny, insipid voice.

Everyone averted their eyes from Hamlet, whose seething ire sent waves of unease to each of the diners at the table.

Yorick jumped up and pranced toward Polonius, faltering slightly as dizziness threatened to overtake him. He kept a steady, exaggerated smile and tilted his head to one side, in the hope of appearing conciliatory.

“Sire, we assure, you, no more hilarity will ensue from this gracious dining table. Surely, any jest or happiness that pervaded our space left the room once you opened the door and entered.”

A raucous burst of laughter sprang forth from the table and Yorick pulled his fiddle out, and with salacious glee, thrust his face towards Polonius and played a ditty. Hamlet, looking a lot less strained, pounded a beat out on the table, and the others joined him. In disgust, Polonius exited the dining hall.

Laughing to himself at the previous night’s antics, Yorick searched on the floor for his stockings. No doubt Hamlet and the king would argue about the incident, but that was not Yorick’s problem right now.

“Aha!” he exclaimed as he spied the stockings in a rumpled heap under his shoes. He grabbed them and pulled them up with a flourish, bumping his head against a brass spike which adorned his night table – it had been a gift from Hamlet.

Alas, poor Yorick might have survived this small accident had he not hit himself on exactly the same spot Horatio’s wine goblet had struck him the night before. Instead, he died on the spot, and hence, Yorick was no more.

What are the odds of being bitten? – 14 November 2014

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?