It was a windy Sunday morning when my house mate and I, each draped over a slightly-too-small-for-comfort couch, surfed our four government sponsored TV channels and landed on the Isidingo Omnibus. With her Post Grad in English and mine in Drama, our low budget pleasures include heckling actors in poorly produced TV shows and movies. This particular morning we watched Charlie go all-out badly planned revenge on her rapist while street savvy posh step-mom to be, Cherel had to come to her rescue. The two women displayed some badly choreographed self-defense moves, followed by some poorly executed plan to contact police-man dad who was attending his play-boy bunny bachelors at the time. The irony would have worked well if the women were a little more slick, and didn’t get slam dunked by said rapists’ clichéd psycho-babbling. Basically we watched the scene gleefully, with outbursts of, “Whoah! Come on Cherel!” and “Ag, nee, regtig, Charlie!”. Eventually and inevitably, Charlie’s general uselessness distracts Cherel and rapist gets a hold of the gun. A struggle ensues during which a shot goes off and no one is sure who the survivors would be. Rapist got the death-shot, with no swansong from us.

Feeling very confident that we would at least have written the scene better, we went about our lazy Sunday. I washed my linen and my friend cooked a delicious chicken and mango curry worth mentioning.

What we were not aware of is that we were to have an uninvited guest this day. A somewhat large spider, curled up in my voile ready to pounce on and devour me! I was filled with a Wes Andersonian admiration for this beautiful beast which symbolised all my fears in the world. Unfortunately there was nothing deep or mythical about the calibre of screaming that filled our humble cottage. House mate and ex-farm-girl decided that a plan had to be made where none of the present persons were required to touch mythical spider. Declining boyfriends were called. I refused the use of chemical warfare, and farm-friend refused my mountain of toilet paper proposal.

Eventually we removed several random items from my room (escape strategy) before several possible artifices were discussed. This phase included the gathering of several spider catching/killing items such as lidded containers, long-range weapons etc. Within minutes we were getting up on the bed, each with a broom in hand. Round 1 ended with us running out the room shrieking and spider minus one member. More items were removed from the room in an elimination process, before the bed was overturned…This was round two, which we lost.

By this time the spider took refuge in my bookcase which contained my Anna Karenina bookprize which I got in Matric and my leather-bound Chillswell poetry collection. This was to be the death round. I finally agreed to chemical warfare. After several other options were eliminated  My friend rummaged through our garage for a box, which she explained would entrap the spider and enable quick efficient disposal of it. Slowly my precious babies were removed from  the shelf one by one, before the culprit crawled over the box trap, dazed.

We both screamed. One of us (not me) released a very long range shot of lemon-scented poison. This was to be our inevitable struggle. Eventually the spider was drowned in a waterfall of toxic chemicals before it finally fell to the carpet curled up and motionless, ironically, not far from where it lost it’s leg, where it remains to this day under a clear plastic Typo container. Like in a Wes Anderson movie, it finally had it’s mythical, fantastical end, though I never had the chance to ask it for any final requests like apple cider. No music played.

We all agreed that sadly, I was Charlie in our little drama, while my house mate settles for the calculating Cherel. My room is now inhabited by the corpse and a lingering smell of toxins. Our Hiroshima.

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