A month or two ago I dreamt there was a beige coloured spider, hanging from the ceiling, twirling above my face, seemingly defying all laws of gravity but given away by the sunlight refracting against her single silken web. For a moment I lay there and gazed up at her dance, spinning softly over and around, tending gently to her thread, light in the air like a bird in flight, swirling through the skies. I opened my eyes and there she was, I watched her, non-reactive, unsure if it was ever a dream at all.

 Someone once told me there are at least 70 spiders in every house. Sometimes, I walk around, and think about where they might be, amongst the cracks, under the floorboards, curled up and hiding. Until night-time, when they prowl the walls, scuttering over our sleeping bodies, but not causing anyone any harm. Thinking about it, it makes sense, cobwebs crop up in every nook and cranny, don’t they?

The spiders leave us clues, see? 

But we choose to ignore them 

until they appear suddenly, sprawled out at the centre of the bathroom floor.