Tears, tarantulas and tiny white lies

As a responsible mother of two (read 'basket case in sensible clothing') I should by now be able to deal with the mundanities of parenthood. You would think. Enter one large and extremely hair 8 legged 'friend', exit one trembling mother in search of a containment vessel. "Mummy", the oldest asks, "what are you doing?"...(and why are you reaching for the whisky at this early hour???)..... Never one to pass on my (very valid) phobias, I search for a plausible explanation. "Er, well, I'm just popping this glass over the spider." "why mummy? why don't you just put him down the toilet like daddy does?" Because mummy would probably die instantly from sheer terror at such a close encounter of the insecticidal kind. And she just isn't that nice. A slow, lingering suffocation is more what I have in mind. "Well, um, spiders don't really like noise and this one is particuarly sensitive. It cries at Children in Need you know. It hates criticism. And Emmerdale really would finish it off..all that incest, all those deaths by fire and falling lamposts. I'll just pop him under here and he'll be safe." "noooo mummy..." "No? No? " Am gripped by panic at the possibility of a plea for compassion by the eldest. "NO mummy. It's not a he , it's a she. It's Amanda." "Amanda? ....." "Yes mummy. Amanda the arachnid." And that, as they say, was that. "Jeez", says the husband when I recount the (by now somewhat embellished) tale. "Is she turning into a geek?"