What a poopy week it’s been. First I get ripped off by a private parking firm after the wind stole my parking ticket. Then I was brutally attacked by some rather angry Campbell’s soup after I tried teasing it open with a manual can-opener.
The icing on the cake? Having to endure a day-long wedgie on Tuesday because all I had clean was a rather tight, or as I prefer to say ‘fitted’, swimsuit.
Don’t worry, I didn’t expose the swimsuit, I don’t hate humanity enough (yet) to have to expose it to Shelley’s tortoise-themed trunks.
The universe was absolutely seething with me for some reason. I have no idea why.
You all know I’m a good, innocent girl, don’t you? It’s not as though I was putting baby-grows on my dog, adding crushed peanuts to a known allergy magnet’s curry or throwing house spiders at my kids.
Everything that could go wrong was going VERY wrong but then along came the weekend, skipping around the corner with a beaming grin on its face and clutching several tubs of Haagen Dazs.
I was actually in work last weekend and believe it or not I was enjoying it.
The stormclouds had lifted (the proverbial ones, at least) and I even won a fiver on a scratch card.
Someone even let me make a ‘big cuppa’ in their over-sized works mug.
The joy was short-lived though: “You’ve got spider on,” a work-mate muttered, pointing at my shoulder.
Spider on? Once I’d realised that this person had some verbal communication problems I peered at my shoulder and just caught a glance of a rotund, tiny spider tooshie obviously going to seek shelter in my bleach damaged hair. I hoped it wasn’t seeking shelter from the rain because I’ve only got about three strands left.
“It’s a false widow! OOOOOMMMMMMM GOD! Shell, if it bites ya you’ll like die or somet worser!” The once sullen work-mate from before shouted, obviously still a firm believer that a lack of proper grammar is acceptable in ANY situation.
“It’s in my hair! My few strands of hair!” I squealed, remaining in a comedic, statuesque pose. “Or worser?! What?”
I don’t know why but it’s always worse when a bug gets in your hair as opposed to somewhere else on your body.
My now extremely animated chum, who had at this point picked up two HB pencils, was busy trying to search through my hair for a cousin of the black widow, dropping two of Ryman’s finest when he found it nestled in the nape of my neck.
My manager soon appeared out of nowhere like the stealthy demon that he is (I’m sure he attaches cotton wool to his soles so that he can catch us doing nothing productive). He was adamant that I didn’t have a dangerous arachnid on my neck and that even if it was a false widow, the worse I’d suffer from a bite would be an itchy rash.
Following reassurance I shook myself furiously and headed into the staff room for a can of pop I bought with my winnings. I took a massive gulp and could feel something ‘juicy’ with stringy bits... My gut reaction? Swallow… How it got there I don’t know. I’m guessing it dived in so that it can eat me from the inside out.
That’ll teach me for using house spiders to scare kids. I’ve learned my lesson. No, my fingers aren’t crossed! Karma is a false widow spider.