So I was playing a wooden flute, in my pyjamas, to a 8.5 month old, sat on the floor beside the dog. Both dog and baby looked a bit confused, but no one was crying, not even me, so I counted it as a success.
But the sound wasn’t coming out right, it was all wispy and blowy and strange, so I peeked into the flute. Inside, was a dead spider sat in its web.
Now, like the cats who forgot how to cat, I think this spider forgot how to spider. This spider toodled its way around the bottom of my closet, into the cloth case of my wooden flute, and then into the body of the flute itself. It looked around, saw the cavernous (if you’re a spider) interior space and thought, “hey, good square footage, this is prime real estate.” It set up home, spun its comfy web, and then waited.
So it waited some more.
Still no bugs.
Nothing at all.
It waited for so long that IT DIED waiting for the bugs to come along.
Now, I have a fair few spiders in my house right now, because it’s the time of year I open all my windows and flies come in and so the spiders set up shop and I have an agreement with them that they can stay so long as they do their job and don’t piss me off. I see these spiders spidering, and they know what’s what. One night one of them might be hanging out in one corner of a room, but if that corner isn’t a hot fly hangout spot, it moves to another corner, or another room.
Flute-spider was either too stupid to make this connection between “no bugs here” and “I should move up the property ladder” – or it was just a really big fan of woodwind instruments.
I feel a little sad for stupid flute-spider. In my head I imagine it was always a little bit dense, and the other spiders made fun of it. It was eventually driven to find a quiet home far from the other spiders, somewhere no one would make fun of it. It finds a lovely flute house, and is happy.
“I know this is a bit of a tricky place to get into, but the bugs will come,” the spider says to itself. And it waits, and in the background plays the song All By Myself because the spider is lonely.
Time passes, but the spider thinks, “Maybe today will be the day the bugs will come,” and so it waits some more.
“Maybe if I just sit here quietly, and think about bugs, it will be as good as if the bugs did come.” And so the spider thinks very hard about bugs, but it isn’t as good, and the spider dies, alone.
And so I thought about the poor spider, and its tragic little life, as I poked it from the flute with a cotton-tipped ear-cleaning stick, you know the ones, and when I eventually dislodged it into my bathroom sink, and turned on the tap, I sent it down the drain with all the gravity and solemnity of a Viking burial. If I’d been able to set a tiny boat on fire, I would have done.
Goodnight, sweet arachnid prince. The bugs WILL come.