There’s a spider that lives in our kitchen, taking advantage of our laissez-faire attitude to housework. He’s chosen his spot well. He lives in the little nook where we feed the cats, just above their water bowl and close enough to their food to trap the opportunistic flies that venture in on hot days, when we leave the door open for the breeze.
His web is waist-high, and he sits in the middle, well out of the range of curious paws and questing feline noses. He caught a crane fly the other day: massive thing like a mutant daddy-longlegs. We all noticed it, watched him wrap it, and store it, and feed on it over the course of three or four days. We didn’t say anything about it though, not then. To admit to noticing him would be to acknowledge a lack in the dusting department and to own responsibility for it.
But when he’d been there a while – months, at least – he was acknowledged. With: ‘catches the flies, good lad,’ ‘the size of that crane fly, did you see it?’ and ‘leave him, he’s doing no harm.’
I guess he’s here for his natural span.
The kids have named him: his name is Albert.
Liz Milne has a Masters in Creative Writing and Publication and is currently taking a PhD at the University of Chester. She writes everything from flash to novels, and when she's not writing, she's probably reading, preferably with a cat on her lap.
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