The spiders in our basement are dying.
They are young males, I hear, gone astray on their search for a mate. And they are, at least for Norwegian spiders, big fellows. They show up every year, signalling the end of summer.
Mostly, it must be said, they are dying through unfortunate run ins with The Dodologists wife. But even if they manage to steer clear of The Wife – and whatever she may happen to, eh, drop upon them – they are dying.
We find them crouched up, with their legs pulled up underneath them; very, very dead. Which means autumn is coming to an end.
Not that I need the spiders to tell me winter is on its way. A week ago, the trees were yellow. Now it’s the ground underneath them that is. The trees are almost naked; skeletons awaiting the inevitable cold.
I like this time of year, even if I’m not all that fond of the spiders. It’s a time of death and decay. But it’s also a time of hibernating indoors, with a pot of tea and 39 Chesterton-books on my Kindle. It’s a good time.
Unless you’re a spider of course.