Cleaning and cussing

My latest excuse for being silent here is that I’ve been moving house, from the ivory towers of Cambridge to the gas towers of North Greenwich. (Okay so Cambridge’s towers are few and resolutely stone, but it’s been some years since gas was processed on the Greenwich Peninsula either.)

I am now largely settled into my new flat, but today I returned to Cambridge to clean. I hadn’t realised quite how many plastic bottles there were hiding in cupboards, nor cardboard boxes lurking beneath the stairs; these all have been found temporary homes in appropriate bins, leaving me to get down to serious hoovering, dusting and other ways of ousting spiders.

The thing is, I just can’t bring myself to hoover the buggers up. Firstly, I figure it’s a little unfair to pick on them simply because they’re much smaller and have an insufficient amount of friction compared to the sucking power of my Dyson. Secondly, they scare the hell out of me. It’s not the eight legs (I don’t find The Corrs scary), and it’s probably not the furry legs (I don’t find Ray Mears scary). Cooms was pretty frightening, so maybe it’s the compressible legs. I can’t really imagine it’s anything other than the legs, although they have weird eyes, and Elton John is a bit frightening at times.

So anyway a large part of the afternoon consisted of hoovering up a bit of web, waiting for the spider to move on, then hoovering up some more. Oh, and cussing – because when they move they lay more web, like some organic silk railroad machine.

As it turned out, the cussing was good practice, because the trains back to London tonight are awkward, and full of annoying people talking loudly about Britney Spears.

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