Before I left X (Twitter’s branding change achieved what years of time-wasting couldn’t), there was a phase when people posted their most cancellable opinions. As September cools, I am realising that mine might be that I love spider season. Social media is full of hysterical teens with great makeup threatening to set fire to stuff, leave the country or never sleep again as their homes become “the spider-verse”, but that first faceful of web in the garden in autumn is my pumpkin spice latte moment. Webs glistening with dew in the dawn sun, industrious architects crouched at their heart, are as Instagrammable for me as russet and golden leaves. Mmm #autumnvibes.
It is not just webs; I think spiders are really great guys. I love that moment, as we are watching TV in the early autumn, when the first gerbil-sized specimen scuttles across the rug in front of me, chunky and heavy enough to startle the dog. I love the way there is always one squatting in the shower in the mornings, delivering a wake-up more effective than a ristretto. I love how they are suddenly absolutely everywhere: my son found one in his noodle salad this week. I hurt my neck recently, so have spent lots of time lying on the floor watching scuttlefest 2023, and the spectacle is even more majestic down at pedipalp (that’s the feely bit on the front of the spider) level.
This year, I even have my own spider motivational coach in the office. She (I say “she”; I’m projecting) arrived last week and now, instead of my usual vacant mouth-open staring bouts, I watch her. It is a constant flurry of web-building, fly-wrapping, fly-eating and general darting around. After a few minutes, her industry always shames me back to work, like a rubbish Robert the Bruce.
Few share the love. I am indignantly deleting emails that arrive daily offering “hacks” to banish them. But unless it arrived here on your bananas, no UK spider will kill you, and they will be gone soon enough – who knows where, to do who knows what, have how many babies? Enjoy that thought. You’re welcome.
Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
