Nearing midday, I’ve just rewoken. I tried wakefulness at seven, but it didn’t feel right, and I didn’t have any responsibilities I couldn’t shirk. Before I crawled back into bed I walked past the dressing up box, noticing the dark hunch of a big house spider in the folds of a white tutu. Even if one feels poorly, any day where one sees a spider in a tutu has got to be a good day. Tegenaria domestica is a chunky looking species, so she has probably not got a place in the corps de ballet. I think it is a she not because of the costume but her healthy size; females of this species can live for seven years in quiet indoor places. Outside, where cold weather will limit a spider’s lifespan to just one year, the moors are shrouded under mist, the treetops are still, I hear Mr thwacking the axe through firewood. The spider is still in the white folds of tutu netting, maybe it seems like a web to her. I put her in the Bromeliad instead, which is in a rare flowering mood.