Spider Quest
This morning: I recall we have a shower, so I stand under it, foaming up shampoo and showery scrub things. There are three brewing bins to climb around, the floor is dank, and the room smells faintly of the long ago rat that died in the roof space. Once the shower is cranked the water abundantly trickles out at a temperature somewhere above warm and below hot. Outside I sit with my paper, pens, coffee, sunglasses. My hair can dry in the sun. The arrival of Girl and Baby forms an impromptu picnic. Baby grubs in the mud, digging up some stones with my dinner fork. She has her first knee scuff. We try to keep a sunhat on her. This afternoon: Through the car window I observe the underside of the overhang of the garage roof, while Mr wanders in to the garage shop to pay for a bag of coal. The white plastic grooves above are ornate with darkly clogged web lines. In shades of dirty white, pockets of spider eggs inhabit the ninety degrees of angle between plastic and c