Bowl

Screams are not normal things.

Not screams of terror. Screams of joy, perhaps - although I've never really been a joyful screamer - and screams of anger and frustration, definitely. But screams of terror? I don't think I can ever remember giving a real one. Only on rollercoasters, when I knew I was safe, or once when a plane I was on dropped for a few seconds and for a few seconds every single person on the plane thought they were going to die. And, perhaps, a tiny squeaky version when I saw my first cockroach.

It's 1am in the morning, and I've just screamed three times. Screamed properly. Loudly, at length, and with no control whatsoever.

It started a few hours ago, as I went to sit on the sofa. Something large and dark ran across the tatami matting, and hid behind one of my cushions. I actually thought, for a few seconds, that it was a rat. Or a small cat, perhaps. Only after a few careful peeks did I ascertain that it was a spider, the likes of which I had never seen before. Bigger than my outstretched hand. Bigger than a large bowl, and I'll tell you how I know this in a minute.

So I screamed. Quite loudly. And then, gathering my dignity - because I'm not the kind of girl to be frightened of spiders - I told it, very firmly:

"You'd better be here to eat the cockroaches, mister. Stay out of my sight and you can squat here. But don't piss me off in the middle of the night or I'm going to be sorely angry."

It didn't listen. He was sitting in the bathroom, opposite the toilet, poised for a 1am pouncing.

So I screamed again. A proper, horrified, it's one am in the frigging morning and I am trying to pee: I cannot handle this right now scream. And I swear to God he heard me. I didn't know spiders had acute hearing, but this one jumped right up and started running across the wall towards me. Towards me. Not away, as instinct would dictate: he is big, but I am bigger. No: towards. Arms outstretched. As if I was what he'd been waiting for all evening.

I screamed again, grabbed a plastic bowl and shouted (I actually shouted this: you can ask my neighbours):

"I'm giving you one last chance, spider. I don't like killing, but if you don't let me catch you with this bowl and put you outside, I'm going to have to. I have spray. A really, really big spray. And it has a picture of a spider just like you on it."

I stared at it, he waved his fangs at me. And then - just as I approached - he jumped. Right at me. So I screamed again: screamed like I've never screamed before, and hope never to scream again.

Reader, I killed him. At least I think I killed him. I chased him around the flat, spraying him, but this giant beast with big pointy teeth kept going. In fact, it would probably be more accurate to say that he chased me: everytime I sprayed and backed away, he ran with his sprawling legs towards me as fast as they would carry him. And that is fast. Really, really fast. He made the cockroach look like a crotchety old man with arthritis. I can hear the sound of ghostly spider legs across tatami even now: now, when there are no spiders left to tap. I hope.

He's under the bowl now. And here's three things to stop me from sleeping: a) he's so large he doesn't fit b) the bowl moved. He almost carried it with him, and c) I've killed something bigger than my dinner. And I do not feel good about that in the slightest.

I've never understood why people scream at spiders: now, I think I might do. And I've never understood before why they kill them.

And now, sadly, shamefacedly, guiltily: ditto.