Would you like flies with that?

Since meeting S, my partner, I have acquired a new skill. I am now one of this country's leading arachnid removalists.

With the onset of our Summer, and Christmas fast approaching, the holiday mood is starting to settle in. Many people's thoughts are turned to packing the family up and touring the countryside. The same can also be said of much of our fauna, especially those of a creepy-crawly nature. Not least amongst them, and spelled with a capital, as all good lead characters in bettes noires should be, is the Huntsman spider. Unfortunately, the Hunstman's idea of a good holiday is to spend some time in the Great Indoors. In the last two weeks, two have made an incursion into our house.

It might not be so bad if these creatures weren't so bloody big. (I have included the above picture to give you some perspective) They have a specially designed flat body which allows them to hide between layers of bark, - and squeeze through the thinnest of cracks - that can measure up to 25 millimetres (1 inch) across. Their leg span has been known to cover 160 millimetres (that's a little over 6 inches for those of you who still believe it's easier to divide by twelve). Naturally, with legs like that, it's a foregone conclusion that they have the ability to jump. Actually, that's not quite true; they can leap. As much as 291 centimetres (approximately 3 feet). Little wonder their sudden discovery can be quite nerve wracking.

The experts reckon they're really quite harmless. Yeah, right. It's obvious they've never had one run up their arm when they opened up the daily newspaper, or had one drop from the ceiling with a thud onto the middle of their chest whilst laying in bed. And, if they're so harmless, why is it they produce in the majority of people a debilitating condition that requires the immediate and rapid administering of a stiff drink?

Which brings us to this guy over on the right.

Last Christmas, S and I spent a fortnight in Renmark, in the heart of South Australia's Riverland. We rented a beautiful old house, built around the turn of last century, situated less than fifty metres from the banks of the River Murray. Word must have gotten round that we would be leaving soon, and on our second last night, Mr Huntsman moved in, taking up residence in the spot most likely to cause distress the next morning; directly above the doorway leading to the kitchen. This was a deliberate ploy, calculated to create as much mayhem and disruption as possible, as evidenced by the evil gleam in two of his eight eyes.

Those of you familiar with the comic book superhero, Spiderman, would know about his famous "spider sense", which warns him when danger is about. I swear that S has the same sense, only in reverse. She has this innate ability to detect when a spider is lurking nearby. The damn thing could be at the bottom of a box papers which is in the back of a cupboard that hasn't been opened for two years. It doesn't matter, S would know it was there. So, naturally, it was S who first noticed our visitor in Renmark.

How best to deal with it? Simple. Go find a man. And, as I was the closest, I got the honours. Too bad the man is also an arachnophobe.

In my mind, there were two problems. First off, we had no fly spray. Secondly, as the ceilings in the house were ten feet up, the spider was too high to give a good whack with a shoe. These were only fleeting considerations, however. S doesn't believe in killing things just because they happen to wander across our path, so the only option open to me was to get him down from the lofty heights, and out the door.

This presented with a whole new set of problems. Some careful planning was required.

Further assessment of the trespasser revealed he was rather large. In fact, he was bloody huge! If any cats in the neighbourhood were missing, I'm pretty certain I was looking at who was responsible. Obviously, even if I was able to manouevre him into a position where a cup could be placed over the top of him, he was too big to fit in the cup; his legs would still be sticking out from under the rim. Ick! This necessitated a desparate search for a container large enough to accomodate him. We finally came up with a screw-top plastic container, and were able to hunt up a piece of stiff card to slide underneath. Reaching him ( just) was solved by grabbing the broom.

Thus, armed with the appropriate weapons, we commenced the assault. With S offering encouragement from a position of relative safety - ie. several feet behind me - I moved in. You would have thought that someone in his position, when finding themself facing the business end of a broom, would take the hint and simply comply with demands and move in the direction indicated. Not this bloke. If he wasn't raising himself up on his haunches, he went running in all the wrong directions. At one stage he managed to get onto the ceiling itself, almost directly above me. Images of him jumping down on my head were extremely vivid. I kid you not when I tell you my heart wasn't exactly at rest.

I eventually managed to herd him to an area where it was possible to trap him underneath the plastic container. As S wasn't going to go anywhere near him, I had to do it, whilst still holding the broom. Moving carefully closer, I slapped the container against the wall.

I missed.

I put it down to fear and loathing.

Of course, Mr. Hunstman was quite indignant at this attack on his rights as a free spider, and he did what comes naturally; he ran. Down the wall at the speed of sound, hit the floor running, and dart under the door to the spare bedroom.

Now we were really worried. Our suitcases were in the spare bedroom, open and half packed prepratory to our leaving the next day. Neither S nor I were pleased at the thought of this guy coming home with us, so steeling my resolve, I carefully opened the bedroom door and scanned the area.

Two emotions hit me simultaneously. Relief and frustration. Relief because the spider hadn't gone directly into hiding, and was in plain view. Frustration because he was in the corner of the wall where it would be impossible to trap him with the container. More manipulations with the broom were called for.

After about two nerve wracking hours - it was probably only a couple of minutes in reality but, as far as I'm concerned it felt like two hours - I was able to successfully trap him. (Either my shepherding skills had improved, or he simply surrendered - I like to think it was the former). It was then simply a matter of sliding the card under the rim of the container, then picking all up together. Carrying him across the road - all the time praying the card didn't suddenly go floppy - I deposited our friend on a big gum tree beside the river.

And what did S say when I returned frazzled, perspiring but triumphant?

"Are you sure he's gone? He's not going to come back, is he?"

Since our Renmark adventure, my spider wrangling skills have improved, and the latest two invaders have been removed with a minimum of fuss (although one did return and S was forced to deal with it herself). My heart still races though.

Scary buggers, they are.

If you would like more information on these creatures, click here.