Spiders in my hair

I came in from the garden today with three enormous, brown spiders tangled in my hair.

My own fault; the worrying smell of woodsmoke had filled my nostrils when I'd stepped out trom the back door this morning and foolishly I'd ignored the myriad dew-glistening webs wreathing the garden and had set off prowling across the damp grass, scanning warily for the source.

I love the smell of woodsmoke, but sparks can fly, especially if it’s a bit windy; living under a thatch, you like any bonfires to be fairly far away. It had appeared that it was; the only trace of smoke had been a faint, grey smudge against the blue sky far away somewhere beyond  the sycamore.  Relieved, I'd dragged open the door to my little greenhouse, unthinkingly batting away the sticky silken threads, cunningly draped from roof to staging to booby-trap the unwary,  as I set about tenderly greeting and watering my biennials.

I think I must have brushed and battered all the spiders out of my hair, (which probably means they have scattered around the kitchen) because when I went to wash it with the bath spray, I didn’t see any soggy bodies in the plughole. I always wash my hair at the bath with the hairspray thingy, because you can see what you’re doing, which you can’t when you are trying to wash it in the shower. Well, I can’t, anyway. I get water and soap in my eyes, then I drop the shampoo bottle and can’t find it – that’s if I have been able to decide which bottle is shampoo and which is conditioner in the first place, since I can’t see them properly and they are both the same size and shape. I hate showers; they are so very wet.  Give me a bath any time. Sadly, though, I’m afraid that my bath days are coming to an end. Getting in is getting harder and harder, never mind getting out. Nowadays I rarely have a bath unless Sandy’s in the house to heave me out if I get stuck.

Sandy is my daughter. Lives in London. Very posh.

In one of those odd mini-catalogue thingies that come with the Sunday paper, I saw a sort of inflatable bath seat that you can let down once you are sitting on it.  Apparently you press a button and it re-inflates somehow when you’re ready to get out. I was very tempted, but eventually decided that it would probably be like the inflatable bath pillow that I bought myself last Christmas which barely lasted the better part of a week. I found it flat as a pancake, and I never got it to blow up again.

Anyway, getting back to  spiders:-  

A gi-normous black one  scuttled out from under the telly  and disappeared under the sofa  whilst  I was watching 'Downton Abbey'  last night, and another  huge   one  was guarding the stairs when I went up to bed. One of the fine, brown jumping kind was waiting for me over the loo. I think I like them least of all; you always feel as if they've landed somewhere down the back of your neck.

Oh, and this morning there was another  great  hairy one crouching menacingly on the wall above my bedhead when I went in to use my hairdryer.

Spiders, inside and out, especially in Autumn.  That’s another problem with living under  a thatch.