My spiders are confused. After two and a half years of relative tranquility with them playing their part, eating flies and mosquitos (and each other probably), and me leaving them to exercise their skills, I have broken the status quo. In an unusual show of domesticity I have awakened the hoover from dormancy and destroyed their homes.
No spiders have been sucked up, I hasten to add, and a rather suicidal and confused character who has chosen to live under the mat in the entrance lobby I avoided. He is the size of a dinner plate (not really, I exaggerate for comic effect) and has been left for a future encounter with the stalwart glass-and-card technique of eviction. I am not afraid of them, after living in Asia and Australia, all British spiders have an amusing air of ‘Almost Spiders’, their Asian relatives actually are the size of dinner plates.
So, why this sudden fit? Well, I have my eye on new accommodation and, expecting a visit of the Landlady, it’s time to slave for weeks trying to ensure the return of my deposit.
The new house is small, overpriced and shabby, so… yes, typical rental property. It is, however, cute, quiet and offers a secluded and, after more intensive labour, a pretty little garden with fruit trees and (too many) flower borders.
The village is picture postcard with village green, local pub, a butcher and a post office. It has a store for ‘damn I just ran out of milk’ purchases and a few other places suited to the posh people who, no doubt, make up the majority of the inhabitants.
Posh people move to small villages like this as an attempt to improve their quality of life and get their kids into the Best Schools. They make compost from their office waste and wonder why I complain that they are too stupid to realise that the cellophane windows in their semi composted envelopes never decay and flutter round the garden til doomsday.
This is the Gin and Jag set who make soap at the weekends and keep chickens before returning to their cut-throat jobs where they spend the week cutting throats. These wannabes are, however, the sort of people who employ me, so I don’t really dislike them. I just smile.
Interestingly enough, from a sort of karmic view, my ancestors came from this village where they lived Downton Abbey existences as servants and horse grooms before one Walter Mitty type left to fight in the Kyber Pass before embarking on a series of fantasy experiences as far removed from sane servant behaviour as could be imagined.
He decided to take the double-barreled name of a gentleman officer killed in battle in Afghanistan and returned to England to a mock posh life, joining the Royal Antediluvian Order of the Buffaloes which, as Wikipedia points out, has nothing to do with buffaloes but is a masonic lodge. He changed his name and started an English Family with his new-found posh name.
He must have liked this name-changing business, as this ex-groom then decides to leave wife and children, travel to Australia, take on the name of a Russian Count and start a new family with children all named after famous Russian characters.
I have no idea if he did the accent too, I assume he must have done.
Well, they say that life is stranger than fiction.
So, now, returning to the village of my roots I am not worried that I will suddenly start speaking with a strange accent, or that I will be drawn to patting horses…
… no, I fear I may inexplicably feel the urge to start making jam.