Spid, as his name suggests, is a jolly little - well, largish really - spider and every morning and evening he used to come out of the plughole and we'd have friendly chats. Admittedly I did most of the talking but I think he appreciated it.
Well, when we went on holiday I told Younger Son to pop in now and again to say hello and I don't know if he did but when we got back there was no sign of Spid. I waited anxiously for a few days, calling him and making coochy coochy come here noises, but I had to resign myself to the fact that he'd died.
I felt guilty. Had he starved to death? Had I mistaken his pleas for food for idle chit chat?
I consulted Gareth, our Zac's spider expert. He told me not to worry: spiders often fast for 6 months or more. (Seriously? I mean, what is the point of living if you can't eat?) He suggested that Spid could have been Spidee as females often die after giving birth. 'There could be a spider egg in your drainpipe even now, containing up to a thousand babies,' he reassured (?) me.
But then yesterday morning, looking for signs of a nursery, pink paint and fluffy teddies, I spotted two familiar legs. 'Spid! Is it you?' I cried.
Spid didn't answer. 'Are you hungry?' I continued.
I rushed to the bathroom where I knew there was a dead fly - yes, the bathroom was in desperate need of cleaning - gathered it up and dropped it just next to the plughole. Quick as a flash, out leapt Spid!
But he must have realised that he'd looked too needy because we when we got home last night the fly had been rejected and was on the far side of the sink. And Spid's gone back to sulking because we didn't take him on holiday with us.