If someone had said to me at the start of 2020 that there would be a global pandemic that reaches into every corner of the globe, and that I would be bitten by a spider with the word ‘widow’ in its name, I would reluctantly have believed the former, but never the latter.
My mainstream chances of being bitten by a venomous spider passed with the accidental squashing of George by a hot mess tin back in a Belize jungle in 1983. George, who had arrived as a gift in a large matchbox, was my platoon’s pet tarantula, and the 100% attendance at his short memorial service that night spoke volumes for the impact that his short life had had on us.
But the unthinkable happened last Wednesday night whilst I was asleep in bed. When I got up on Thursday morning, all that I had to show for it at that early stage was a little red welt on my chin that screamed ‘infected ingrowing hair’ or ‘out of control zit at wrong time of life’, so I ignored it.
By Thursday evening, I was feeling sick, had a headache and was running a slight fever. Now, you don’t need me to tell you that October 2020 isn’t the best of times to be running a slight fever, particularly an unexplained one, and I lay in bed trying to do those tiny things, like remembering where specific keys to things are hidden, when you are slipping down the convex slope of approaching death. Besides, the growth on my chin had adopted a livid red colour, and was big enough to be poking its inquisitive little head out of two weeks of beard.
By Friday, it was all worse, and I cancelled appointments, waiting all the while for the new persistent cough, and the anosmia that would deprive me of the pleasure of all those flat whites in the French bakery in Midhurst. I worked out that the nearest testing centre with vacancies was probably the Isle of Wight, and settled in to await developments.
At five o’ clock on Saturday morning, the fever had passed, but the unsightly boil absolutely hadn’t, announcing itself to the outside world like one of those annoying advertisements featuring Ant and Dec that are just a little bit funnier than you ideally want them to be. I had arrived in that twilit zone of feeling compelled to mention it to people in case they had noticed it and thought it was something much worse. Sitting in front of my PC, I also did my own triage and eventually arrived at the strange but, as it now turns out, correct conclusion that I had been the victim of an assault by a False Widow Spider.
If this ever happens to you, I would advise you NOT to do what I then did, which is to trawl the outer reaches of Google for illustrations of what can happen when one of these bites goes wrong. Anything for which death is listed as a possible side effect should give even the most heroic of us pause for thought, but the pictures that littered the internet were the kind that you only ever really see on medical freak shows on TV.
A trip to the Minor Injuries Unit on Sunday, and one to the pharmacy on Monday during which the obliging assistant transposed the word ‘False’ for ‘Black’, which I have to say was a failsafe way of attracting the immediate attention of his boss, brings us to where we are now. Of the 1.9 square metres of my body’s surface area, 99.95% is absolutely fine, whilst the other 0.05% absolutely isn’t. It is to be hoped that a course of strong antibiotics will nail it.
Your good wishes are taken as read, but you might also want to drag a hoover up to your bedroom in the next day or so, and tackle those areas around the bed that don’t normally get a look-in. Apparently a damp October in South-East England makes them very happy.
Finally, in a life during which I try to do my bit to champion biodiversity, I am happy to make an exception to that little bastard with the large backside and loads of legs.
*
This is the 200th blog in this little series, and the last for a while. If this fills you with an unaccountable sadness, you can always console yourself a copy of Liquid Gold…
…or, better still, pre-order a copy of Shearwater, the book that I hope will do for seabirds what Lassie did for annoying sheepdogs.
Old enough to know better 
I haven’t yet hoovered, but I have advance ordered.
Best wishes to the 0.01%
Why the blog pause?
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It’s supposed to be a relatively effortless thing every four days or so. The rule is simple: no preparation, and no more than 20 minutes in the writing. Every now and again, I find it starting to bully me, which is fine if the editor of the Times is paying you £500 a shot, but less so if it is a labour of love. Hence, unspecified length of pause just to let it sink back to its natural level on the compost heap of my life!!
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Hope you keep your chin. And best of luck with the books.
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You are a hero Roger. Perhaps it will accentuate your chisel chin. Get totally well. Please return that as I’m holed up in a hotel on antibiotics with an infected blister. So maddening. I’ll give it a couple of days then see if I have to abort or can carry on 🙁
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I really hope it sorts itself, Mary, after all the efforts you have made to get out there. Two days rest, two days short walks, and then see. Easier said than done, though. Good luck!
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Saddened by the pause of your blog. Having come to it quite recently after reading your books, they came to be a connection to a long ago friend. They were a welcome interjection into the routine of our lives. Often a serendipitous reflection of our own thoughts and an uplift to our spirits. Thank-you, and we do hope you’ll be back soon.
Like others: hoover is out- advance order is in!
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Lovely words, Ken, and thank you. My comments to Charles (below) sum up the very non-dramatic reasons for the short pause. off on holiday next week, so shouldn’t be too long. And I’m so pleased you enjoy them.
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I do love your blogs. Could you decide to do just one a fortnight? Hope the chin is a whiter shade of pale soon!
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