Note to more sensitive readers: while this post is about spiders, it does not contain any pictures of them.
Ever since moving into our new house, HB and I have had a bathroom spider. It is Trite Planiceps, a common jumping spider. It does not make webs, and it is territorial. The territorial-ness of it means that every so often suddenly we have a NEW bathroom spider, and I get very excited and compare New Bathroom Spider to Old Bathroom Spider (R.I.P.) and HB rolls his eyes a little and wonders why he shacked up with me in the first place if all I am ever going to be doing is running into the bedroom shouting excitedly about spiders.
My favourite bathroom spider was Old One-Leg, who was there for ages (I think it was him all along, they all sort of look the same) then lost one of his front legs in a spider-on-spider shower battle which I was lucky enough to witness. I was in the shower and looked up to see gladiatorial spiders, locked in a deadly embrace! I would've gone and got the camera to show you, but I was all covered in soap. As a mark of respect, I even washed the body of the vanquished spider down the drain.
Sadly, a couple of weeks later, Old One-Leg was replaced by Little New Spider, who was both little and new, and had all of his legs. This wasn't enough to keep him from being swiftly taken out by New Spider, who was bigger and, it turns out, a raging fuckwit.
In general, I have a healthy respect for Bathroom Spider (Trite Planiceps). I don't poke him with a bit of dental floss, and in return he doesn't hide then crawl up my butt when I am on the toilet. I look at him curiously and he waves his legs at me and all is well with the world.
Not New Jerk Spider. New Jerk Spider is above any sort of treaty. I found this out when yesterday I had a shower and when I hopped out, he was on my towel. There is nothing quite like hopping out of the shower and reaching for your towel, while thinking about how clean and refreshed you feel and how you could really go for a bagel but maybe we don't have any cream cheese, then AACCKKK FUCK SPIDER ON MY TOWEL WHY IS HE THERE WHAT DO I DO?
"Okay," you think, "the spider is on my towel." Not, 'There is a spider on my towel,' because you know exactly which spider it is.
"Stay calm. Move the spider off the towel. Move him with... a toothbrush!"
"No, not MY toothbrush! Move him with HB's toothbrush."
So you move the spider with HB's toothbrush and the spider does not want to move but eventually he does because he sees the cold gleam of death in your eyes, and then you shake your towel for five minutes and think, "Well, that was kind of weird," and get on with your day.
AND THEN THE NEXT DAY.
The next day you go into the bathroom and you sit down to do a wee and you reach for the toilet paper AND THE SPIDER IS ON THE TOILET PAPER.
After a comical scene which I shall spare you but which involved a backwards waddle over to the bathroom cupboard (backwards because of keeping an eye on the spider), I went back with a piece of paper and a glass because I really felt that this whole bathroom-sharing thing wasn't working out between us and it was time for a new Trite Planiceps to move in.
AND NEW JERK SPIDER WAS GONE.
There is no moral to this story except that until I find him I am going to the downstairs toilet.