Dad v. the Huntsman

I'd just popped on the headphones for a bit of mid-morning air guitar when I spotted the bugger in the top corner of the study. Though not yet midway through the first verse there was no question I had to stop.

It wasn't fear of the spider. More the embarrassment of having an audience.

And it was just as well Kate was at work. She hates the things. Tough as nails on a netball court, but put a bug in front of her and she's up on the nearest chair.

She'd also been beavering away in the study from four to six this morning. I'd hate to think what would have happened if our eight-legged friend had arrived a few hours earlier.

And by hate I mean preferred to keep sleeping.

Anyway, scene set - now for the action: one brush, three strikes, out the door.

The first took it from wall to mattress. Next was a shot I couldn't repeat in fifty attempts - a flat drive from sofa to curtain cord. From there it was easy: extend the cord out the door and kick the thing into touch.

Okay, not just into touch. Once there it was doused in fly spray until it looked like Frosty the Snowman.

Talk about mellowing with age. In the old days I'd have lit a match.

Okay, possibly still a bit excessive. The spider was outdoors where it belongs, and it's not like it was a Red Back. The Huntsman exists purely to scare New Zealanders and English tourists.

Big but harmless. A kitten in a Tarantula suit.

Still, we do have a wild sub-tropical backyard and I'd like to think there aren't any big spiders in it. Let alone one that's pissed off and lurking 'round the corner.