What a year it has been for spiders’ webs. In the sunshine after rain they glisten in all their precision engineering as I observe them through our windows, back and front. Mrs Llew, who yelps at the sight of a spider indoors and forces me into the moral choice between murdering the spider or rescuing her, has grown attached to one of these creatures. She calls it Fred – perhaps we should give friendly names to all our phobias – to the point that, as s/he, the spider in this case, rests still for hours beyond our French windows and beneath the climbing rose, we leave it be.
But Mrs Llew likes clean windows and our windows are anything but clean and in our front garden there is a city of Freds, their shining nets spreading from dahlia to Rugosa rose bushes with their lovely, lush, apple-like hips and down to the stray, wild coltsfoot. Well, those wonderful spider structures are no more, because I hobbled out this afternoon to clean the windows. My granddaughter will be unhappy about this because on successive visits she has traced the development of these webs and one of their creators in particular, though that one has no name.
Happily, as my Squeegy broke their webs, the spiders slipped with great agility out of the way and I’m hopeful that they will have rebuilt their beautiful, lethal nets by tomorrow.
Weird isn’t it? Beauty, destruction, restoration, more killing. And the new webs will glisten in the Autumn sun. And we go on with our lives and loves and failures, and faith that all will be well.
Footnote: we have a natty gadget which traps and saves spiders whole with a mini vacuum. Trouble is that sometimes there is no time to fetch it.