Chapter 1

Thursday, May 11th, 10:42am

Would you look at that. So many legs. Arguably too many. Each one so thin yet structurally strong. I’ve only two legs and they’ve both become fat and weak. Two uncooked sausages hanging from my hips with sore knees in the middle. But not him. He’s got legs like pistons, ready to fire. Yet he just waits in the centre of his sticky little house. Completely still. I bend my sore knees and shuffle my slippers a few steps closer so I can get a good look at his web. Solid anchor points. Even distribution of tension. Like a suspension bridge. Impressive. I wonder, is it possible for a spider to look proud? He looks like a proud little fellow to me. Sitting there in the home that he built all by himself. Bordering smug, actually. 

I always loved the idea of building our family home. Really planning it all from scratch ourselves. The big details all the way down to the toothbrush holders. And I’d help build it too. Get my hands on a shovel and help dig out foundations and haul heavy timbers alongside the builders and joiners – the sturdy fellas. Proper hard work. I’d get all sweaty and maybe take my top off – it’s a hot day after all and my favourite Eat Sleep Beer Repeat t-shirt has become stifling. Maybe the neighbours are watching and they see me hauling said heavy timbers in the afternoon sun, back glistening with the sweat of good honest labour. Maybe they’d see me and think, gosh that’s some good honest labour and his body isn’t half bad for a man of middle age. Oh he’s married? What a pity. And they’d take another bite of custard cream, adrift in a saucy daydream. And an FM radio is playing music and I hum along even though I don’t know the tune, just getting the job done with the boys. A games room for Aiden with a pool table and plenty of space for making his videos and his outrageously expensive VR helmet. And a walk-in wardrobe where Leanne can keep her many thousands of pounds of clothes, makeup and hair tools. And of course, a big workshop/garage for ol’ Daddio with a proper workbench and a vice and one of those flexible extractor tubes for sucking up wood shavings. And just for kicks I’d stick googly-eyes on it so when it sucked up shavings it looked like a face, hungrily gobbling up whatever it could. It’d be so funny! Hungry Hank, I’d call him. I’m off to visit Hank, I’d say and the family would roll their eyes with a smile that says what is he like? And I’d be out there day and night; building, carving, chiseling, glueing. Making things. Just like when I was little. And best of all is they’d be grateful because Dad built a house just for them and wow Dad thank you so much and everyone is Happy Level 10 all the time. 

The cool garage air sneaks into my loosely tied dressing gown and shakes me awake as I realise that I’ve been lost in a daze. We bought a newbuild. With walls like wafer. I hauled no timbers and built nothing, bar a couple of flatpack drawers which don’t count. A chimp with an alan key could assemble those. I stare down at the gross little guy and his industriousness. A spider would never buy a newbuild. I feel further outdone when I realise that not only did he build his own house, snugly in the corner of my tiny workbench and adjoining B&Q shelving unit, but he even created the material that he built his house with. From his own body! Equal parts resourceful and gross. My imagination whirrs; if I could shit commercial-grade concrete and build a house from it – would I? Do I possess the will? Or the stamina? It’s hypothetical, obviously, but still, I’d damn well try. For my family. Though getting planning permission through the council would be an absolute nightmare. 

It dawns on me suddenly that my whole reason for coming to the garage is to grab a screwdriver. I refocus myself away from the spider and his web and retrieve the tool from the bottom drawer. I start to make my way back to the house but I stop in my tracks. Standing in the doorway I turn and feel compelled to take a final look at the spider, in the home he’s made for himself, here in my cluttered garage. I wonder if he’s happy among the disorganisation of flat-tyred bikes, tools and half emptied paint pots. You know what? I hope he is. Or at least as much as a spider can be. I give him the faintest of nods. My blessing. You may live your short life here, little architect. And may you find happiness, between the workbench and the shelving unit. Someone around here should. I shuffle my slippers across the pebble path back to the distant cry of a smoke detector needing new batteries. 

Chapter 2

Sunday, May 14th, 1:08pm

I see his well constructed web but I don’t see him anywhere. Where have you gone, little guy? Perhaps away surfing the web! I laugh through my nostrils at that zinger but my smile soon drops and worry creeps in. How long do spiders live? I suppose he could be gone already. I’m surprised to find myself hoping he’s okay. I pick up a blunt 2B pencil laying on the worktop and give his web the gentlest nudge, attempting to simulate a caught fly with the rubber-end. Nothing. I prod more. Nothing. I prod a bit too hard now and some web comes away stuck to the rubber. Shit. I was just hoping to get his attention – not demolish what could very well have been his favourite section of web! I get a (very) small fright when he comes rushing out from behind the unit like a widowed OAP with kids near their bins. He freezes a few inches from where I had poked. Perfectly still. Then his little front legs wriggle in the air as if to say hey now what’s the big idea I thought we had come to an understanding?

I lower my head to get a closer look at him. I’ve always found spiders gross but the closer I look the more character he seems to have. I’ve never really thought about a spider’s face before but there’s definitely a face. Albeit small and hairy. I wonder if he’s disappointed about the fly-false-alarm and light vandalism of his home. Does his little face look disappointed? Annoyed? Are his little spider eyebrows furrowed? He was expecting a delicious meal waiting for him but instead it’s just me. Ugh, me. All portly and unemployed, ruining his lovely hand-built home with a 2B pencil. All of a sudden there feels like a dense leaden ball in my chest that’s being pulled toward the pit of my stomach. Guilt. Around Level 6. It seems that I can’t interact with any sentient being for more than two minutes without finding some way of failing them. Wife? Check. Son? Check. Father? Check. Spider in the garage? I peer down at him. He definitely looks annoyed. So: check. I am just a big disappointment steamroller, flattening everyone and everything in my path. You better look out, spider, or I’ll crush you too if you’re not careful. I reckon that’s Sadness Level 8 I’m feeling alongside the cold garage air on my exposed tummy. 

The spider starts to gently needle the area of broken web with his front legs. I lean in to look closer and can’t believe what I’m seeing – he’s repairing the damage. Knitting and weaving new threads in the cleave. He isn’t ruminating on the loss. No self-pity. He bucks up and he gets to work. I feel inspired and consider, maybe, there’s something I could do to make things right…I have it. I race back to the house, dressing gown billowing behind me, to the kitchen, to the fridge. I retrieve a single slice of wafer ham from a packet. He’ll love this! Much better than a fly! I can feel an anticipatory smile tugging the edge of my mouth as I imagine his utter delight tucking into a special meaty treat. This will make the leaden ball of Guilt go away for sure. But I’m spotted. Leanne, transporting a basket of laundry with poor carrying technique, has seen me. She asks what I’m doing with a slice of ham when she’s asked me again to fix the cupboard hinge that’s come loose and causes the door to slump in sad fashion. I have to think of a good lie here to keep Leanne in her EGZ (Emotional Green Zone). I’m making a sandwich seems like a good option. But no other sandwich components are out and only a lunatic starts making a ham sandwich by getting the ham out first. She’d think four weeks without work has started to atrophy my brain. Perhaps it has. Her expression sours and flags Angry Level 5. But I can’t just tell her about my feelings! Leanne is a wonderful woman, truly, but she won’t understand. Not the guilt I feel about letting down the garage spider nor the more general sadness about being a big fat disappointment steamroller. And trying to explain could lead to an escalating Angry Level 7. I remember then in a jarring instant how we used to hold each other. Two twenty year olds tangled in bedsheets and the bliss of a future yet realised. She’d tell me how my shoulder was the comfiest pillow and I’d tell her that it was made just for her and mindlessly weave her hair through my fingers and her hair always smelled like fruit. I briefly wonder when was the last time. 

But in the now, her eyes are widening at me, waiting for an answer. I shake off the sad memories and accompanying sad thoughts and think think think…A snack! A small ham snack is believable enough to fend off suspicion and perhaps only annoying enough to elicit at max Angry Level 3. It’s risky but I commit to the route. I stuff the slice into my mouth and chew a satisfied chew while staring back at Leanne as though she’s caught me doing the most normal thing in the world. I hold eye contact, meeting her challenge and I shrug as if to say I don’t know what you’re staring at because eating lone slices of packet ham straight from the fridge is just something that I do and you married me so really what does this say about you. She scoffs, rolls her eyes and leaves the room carrying the laundry without utilising her back muscles at all. Huffy sigh. Disgusted expression. No rebuke. Strong indicators for Angry Level 2. Honestly, not such a bad result, all things considered. If we can get through a day without pissing the other off too badly then that’s a win in my books. 

I let out a sigh of relief and as the adrenaline settles I take a moment to debrief. MP (Mitigation Protocol) for Angry Level 2 requires a bar of premium chocolate (Galaxy, Lindt or peppermint Aero) so I add a shopping trip to my MT-DL (Mental To-Do List). It also occurs to me that over the next few weeks I’ll have to make sure Leanne sees me having a few more impromptu ham-snacks so this instance doesn’t stand out as suspect. I add that too to the MT-DL and feel its burden bearing down on me. It can be very taxing staying on top of so many things. Any given day has a thousand small considerations and if you’re not on the top of your game then you run the risk of drowning in them. And before you know it things are falling apart. What people don’t realise is that being a father is as much about managing the lives and emotions of those under your roof as it is about managing the car insurance. And this guy does both with frankly unappreciated efficacy. And to think, Leanne once yelled in an argument that I’m completely emotionally unavailable. Oh yeah? Well, my rigorously developed EMS (Emotion Management System) begs to differ! Just because I’ve never outwardly cried in the eighteen years of our marriage doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings. I did a little cry when I had to take Aiden’s tumor ridden hamster to be euthanised (rest in peace, Monty) and I was upset a bit at my dad’s funeral too. Just because I’m not on my knees bawling my eyes out doesn’t mean I’m not feeling anything. I just have a well managed proximity to emotion. I would argue that I’m actually very sensitive to the needs of those around me. Especially for a man. 

Now, I must deliver this apology ham to the spider so he’ll forgive me. I grab another slice, hide it in the hollow of my palm like a card-shark with a sly ace and I make my way back to the garage. That excited little smile returns. 

Chapter 3

Sunday, May 14th, 1:22pm

The spider is in the same spot on his web as when I left him earlier. He’s been moving around some of the frayed fibres from the unfortunate pencil incident. But I have come to make things right! I gently place a small torn strip of apology-ham on his web a good five-six inches away from him. I’m easily Excited Level 7, feeling like a scientist about to witness a rare moment of nature unfolding. The spider reacts to the vibration on his web like a tripped alarm and immediately he accelerates toward the ham with horrible arachnid speed. He reaches it and without the slightest hesitation or concern, he starts eating. And I mean really just chowing down. I stand there frozen and marvel at the phenomena taking place in my garage – this gnarly little thing, all instinct and teeth, wild and free; eating wafer thin supermarket ham. I wasn’t sure he’d go for it. I thought maybe some built-in instinct to obey the hierarchy of the food chain might kick in but no such thing. He eats. I watch.

It occurs to me, standing there in my open dressing gown, that we’re all just animals and as such we’re hard-wired for one thing – survival. He doesn’t count calories. He doesn’t worry about saturated fats or whether it was ethically sourced. He doesn’t care what it is or where it came from. He eats, because that’s what an animal does when it’s hungry. And hunger is petrol to the combustion engine of survival. At the end of the day, the spider eats the ham. I’m perhaps more like this spider than I initially imagined as I do pretty much the same thing. Though for me it’s sometimes crisps, sometimes the heel of bread no one ever seems to want, sometimes a jar of jumbo hotdogs hiding at the back of the cupboard. What are you meant to do? Leave them? And ignore your innate instinct for survival? Did the spider leave the ham? No. Just look. The spider eats the ham. The spider and I understand that we are both predators that must fully utilise the opportunities of our environment. He has his web and the garage and his teeth and I have a brain and thumbs and access to a supermarket with what might as well be an infinite supply of everything. Including jumbo hotdogs. We’re different but ultimately, we’re the same.

I watch him feverishly nibble the shred of ham and ponder why the word jumbo is reserved only for hotdogs and jets. I tear off a second strip, slightly larger than the first and I place it on the far side of his web, close to the wall and shelving unit. A little something for later. I realise that my Guilt Level 6 has diminished and made way for Relief Level 3. I pop the remainder of the slice into my mouth and smile as I chew. It’s salty and soft and yielding. Look at us, just a couple of animals, sharing a kill. Like the Old Times. My garage suddenly feels less like a place to store bikes and the lawn strimmer and more like an ancient cave. I imagine the buzzing strip light on the ceiling is a campfire. The wall-mounted Man Cave sign is a fingerpainting of men throwing spears at a buffalo. I swallow the meat, feeling primal and revitalised. A new feeling? My EMS kicks into gear and concludes Visceral Level 8. I pause and consider how teachers may show up in the most unlikely places and forms. I hold my hands together in gratitude and bow my face close to the spider, repeating his lesson back to him in a reverent whisper; The spider eats the ham. 

He seems to have paused his eating, as though he heard what I said. His legs twitch. His mandibles wriggle. I bet that’s his way of saying yes chunky human now you get it. He gets back to eating and wow, the sheer speed has really surprised me. Small bites, yes, but fast. Very fast. He’s nearly finished. I bet he’d finish a whole hotdog in a day given the chance. Gosh, that would be some experiment. Imagine it! But the web surely couldn’t hold the weight. Hotdogs have high water retention. So not without some kind of support structure. Or maybe a device that gradually decants the hotdog? Battery powered with a series of reducing gears so it’s slowly pushed out over time for him to eat. Perhaps even a heating element for a slow cook. Just think of it! All of a sudden my mind is swirling with ideas and potential and that old anticipatory joy of an unbuilt Meccano set. I can’t even stop the Excitement Level 9 giggle that proceeds out of my throat. Imagine actually building it! I’m laughing now to myself in the shaft of afternoon light that beams through the small dirty window. Dust motes drift by and I realise I’m not laughing by myself – I’m with him. I laugh with him. I haven’t felt this alive in…well, a while. 

The laughing stops as reality reasserts itself, reminding me of the sad cupboard door who awaits me. Screwdriver. Bottom drawer. I wipe the gathering moisture from the corner of my eye and sniff away the snotty nose before pausing at the door, screwdriver in hand. I turn back and look at the spider and I whisper for no one’s ears but his Thank you sensei. Also, must remember premium chocolate for Leanne.

Chapter 4

Wednesday, May 17th, 8:46am

I told my son about you, Spider. This morning during breakfast, before he went to school. He asked me why I’ve been spending more time in the garage lately and if I’d become an alt-right Facebook Dad? I told him that I didn’t know what that was and he snort-laughed and said that I was “cringe”. I suppose I may have been invited to a few new groups on Facebook but it’s just for sharing funny pictures. They sometimes have a political slant and sometimes someone might let themselves down in the comments but when did opinions become illegal? It’s not like I’m attending their get-togethers. I read that three people and a police dog were stabbed at the last one. Outside of a hotel, I believe. Protesting high nightly rates I suppose. Or having to pay for WiFi usage which, I agree – is completely outrageous. It should come included in the room fee!

I told Aiden that I’ve been observing the natural predation strategies of a common house spider that’s made itself at home in our garage. I was hoping to pique his curiosity, get him excited about something beyond his phone. Something we could experience together. He said that it sounded “gay” and left the room. I would have moved a mountain to have had my dad share something like this with me at his age. To have shown any interest at all. Annoyed at Aiden’s rejection (and baffling categorisation) I followed and pressed him to explain how what I was doing could possibly be construed as “gay”. But in response he ignored my question and began doing some kind of flamboyant internet dance. Not wanting him to get away without explaining himself I challenged him outright – explain to me how observing a spider is gay? I repeated the question again and again in the face of his incessant dancing to the point where I was yelling, red faced and furious, reaching what must have been Angry Level 8. Explain it! Explain it! I screamed. I think something in me had come unhinged. I thought of my dad, showing no interest in the Meccano bridge, clock tower or crane that ten year old me had built. My bid for his approval, rewarded with indifference. And it was happening again. In response to my bellowing Aiden only danced with increasing vigor until it was time for him to leave for school. Panting and shamed, I watched him dance his way into the passenger seat of his mother’s Volvo and off he went. After a sit down and a glass of milk my fury subsided and gave way to worry. Worry about him. What kind of future is there for a kid like him? Who’s going to employ someone with such a tenuous grasp on logic? Someone with no curiosity about the world? No one, that’s who. But he’s convinced he’s going to be an influencer. Try supporting a family with that very not real job. And granted there was that month where a company paid him £2,000 (!) to promote some under-researched vitamins on his TokTok page but all that’s done is cement his deluded conviction. 

Gosh, I remember Baby Aiden so clearly. Little chubster. Always giggling. I can still remember the weight of him in my arms. His tiny body in the plastic bath tub. Feeding him little slices of peach. I changed his nappy at least like, twenty times too which is way more than most other dads I know. And 100% more than my own. My dad’s newspaper was far more interesting than I ever was. So I swore I’d be different for Aiden – I’d be present and fun and our time together would be special. We did this thing, he must have been two or three at the time, where I’d sit him on my shoulders and skip around the garden being a horsey, whinnying and galloping with total disregard for whether the neighbours could hear. And I’d go neigh! and he’d go yeeha! He loved it which meant I loved it. My little cowboy. He had a hat and everything. But I am no longer his horsey. Now in his eyes, I am cringe and gay. How did this happen, Spider? I feel like I barely know him now. Longing Level 9. And it’s not like I don’t try to connect with him, to learn about his life. But he barely gives me anything. All that I’ve managed to pry from him recently is that he and his friends like playing an online game called Fortnight, that his favourite restaurant is Pizza Hut and that at school Ketamine is all the rage which I assume, based on past crazes, is some kind of brightly coloured energy drink. Kids are having far too much sugar these days but what are you supposed to do? 

I realise I’ve been sightlessly gazing into your web for I don’t know how long. Long enough for the ham slice in my hand to have gone warm. I tear a scrap and gently place it on your web and after a few moments you scuttle over and begin to eat. At least our relationship is simple. Predictable. I bring you ham and we share company. You listen to me. There’s no fear of rejection. No second guessing that you might be making fun of me. Or pranking me and filming it. No inviting me to try an underwater virtual reality game, knowing that I wouldn’t say no, only for a virtual great white shark to attack me which I later learned was a prescripted event! So yes, Aiden knew it would happen. And yes, I screamed and I tripped over the futon when my reaction was to turn and breaststroke away as fast as I could. You would have taken no joy in that scene, Spider. Unlike the 14 million people on TokTok. Many of whom left mean comments about me. And when I asked him to take the video down he said that he legally owned the intellectual property so he didn’t have to. And he’s a sharp kid when he applies himself – I don’t doubt he’s done the research. Especially with all the Ketamine he’s likely drinking, keeping him up all hours. He’s just…he’s not my little cowboy anymore. I look down at you with my two moistening eyeballs. For a moment I wonder if I’ll cry. But I don’t. I imagine you wearing a tiny cowboy hat. Adorable. You look back at me with your many dark little eye-beads. At least you see me. It’s easy to feel seen when you’re being looked at by like, twenty eyes. 

The strip light on the ceiling buzzes and flickers and it strikes me suddenly how quiet it is here and how quiet your life must be. Lonely, perhaps? I wonder if spiders have a feeling akin to human loneliness. Probably not. But just in case you do, I lean in close and whisper to you; You don’t have to feel lonely. You have me. I care about you. And today I decided – together we’re going to make something special. Something the world has never seen.

I remember the task at hand. Retractable tape measure. Middle drawer. I wipe my runny nose on the back of my hand and carefully take the vertical measurements between your web and my workbench as well as the available dimensions of the worktop. I jot down the figures in my little notebook. That should be all I need for now to start planning our project. As I leave the garage I pause by the door and quietly neigh! perhaps hoping you might yeeha! but you do not. Not because I think you wouldn’t like to. But because you are a spider. 

Chapter 5

Saturday, May 20th, 11:09am

I’ve had a couple of days to work on our project and things are going well, Spider. Though admittedly it’s not been easy to find time with such a busy house. Especially while maintaining the appearance of job-hunting to preserve Leanne’s EGZ (Emotional Green Zone). But I’ve got a system all worked out. So while she’s around it’s head in laptop, shoulders hunched, double-clicking the touchpad far harder than I know is necessary. I have a large mug of black coffee made with four heaped spoons so the living room is filled with the smell of serious productivity. Sometimes she’ll go panting by, heaving a basket of washing or shopping or something and I’ll pretend not to see her and throw out a frustrated tut or a scoff at my screen that suggests gosh this hardworking guy just can’t catch a break in this torrid economic landscape. And I return to hammer-clicking and shaking my head at the jobsearch homepage. Over the years my EMS (Emotional Management System) has given me a total understanding of non-verbal communication so I embody Frustration Level 7 with absolute precision. She’ll smile half-heartedly and offer to refill my coffee by pointing at it, even though I haven’t had any because it tastes awful and I’ll politely decline with a sticking-in-there smile and we go on our way. 

Despite my efforts, I know she’s frustrated with me. Last night was date night. A Friday night tradition we established a few years back as a way to introduce more “intentional us-time” into our relationship again. It started as lavish dinners out, seeing shows, going to events. Over time the effort diminished but the slot remained. Last night we played Scrabble. I was so distracted that my best play was a measly WEAVE (12 points) to which Leanne hijacked the latter E for a double word scoring RESENTFUL (29 points). Still, I abided by the loser-gives-winner-footrub ruling but my heart just wasn’t in it, my head miles away. I performed none of my special moves. No individual toe wigglies or calf karate chops. Just dispassionate kneading, like a baker recently diagnosed with celiac disease. I don’t blame her. Can’t blame her. But I can’t give what I don’t have.

So she’ll lumber away, shoulder-barging open the kitchen door with a grunt (which feels a little put-on) and with the coast clear I’ll get my notepad out and back to my schematic sketching and calculations. I take it out now and look at my design, framed on the page by doodles of webs and spiders in cowboy hats and feel the triumph of Satisfaction Level 8. The Fully Automated Jumbo Hotdog Arachnid Module (or FAJHAM for short). I’m going to build it, Spider. For you. I’ve triple-checked the dimensions now and after some minor recalculations we’re spot on and ready to move to the construction of v1.0. Believe it or not, obtaining the accurate dimensions of a hotdog was far trickier than I initially imagined! Not so much the main cylindrical mass but what I call the pinched hemispherical end-caps. I realised that I’d need uninterrupted time to measure accurately so yesterday I elected to sneak the required items (tape measure, notebook, pencil + single unsheathed jumbo hotdog) into the bathroom. But what if I had been caught going into the bathroom with those items, I hear you ask. Shhh, now Spider – worry not. I may be carrying a few more pounds than is considered ideal but I can be stealthy when I must. Besides, risk is just part of the burden I shoulder for my family. And hotdog juice in my pockets. But most importantly, I got the correct measurements and after further diagrammatic sketching I’ve now got everything worked out. And the best part is – all of the components are salvageable from items around the house! That’s spider-like industriousness if you ask  me. Give me a few days and we’ll be ready to roll out Project FAJHAM. Leanne will be away picking up shopping for us and her horrible parents tomorrow morning so that’s my best opportunity for uninterrupted component reclamation. Then, we build.

So as you can see, Spider, I’ve been busy. Anything BUT redundant. Stupid Horizon Utilities Group may no longer see my value after 11 years of hard work and unflinching loyalty but just look at what I can rustle up without even trying that hard. I’ve probably only put around 25-30 hours planning into this project. But hey, I suppose they’ll be fine without me. I may have been their most efficient project manager with an 87.6% timeline accuracy rating but whatever. I may have solo-managed the laying of over 70 miles of waste and water pipes in our last major contract but what does that matter now? Oh and how many sick days did I claim during my time there? That will be a big fat zero. Not when I had a bit of whooping cough nor after my vasectomy. Snipped on a Sunday afternoon and Monday morning there I was, sat on a Halfords travel ice pack, Uncomfortable Level 9, organising waste pipe layouts. And how do they thank you for that kind of commitment? For showing up everyday despite a heavy viral load or very sore balls? By showing you the door. But it’s onto bigger and better things now. Starting here. Starting with you. Someone who appreciates my labour. 

Hey – your web looks bigger, you know. Thicker in places and definitely reaching further up the shelving unit now. Perhaps I’ve inspired you just as you’ve inspired me! I gently place a torn strip of ham on your web and smile as you scamper over and begin to eat. There’s not a fly in sight in here – you’ve been doing your job well. I take a knee and lean in close to tell you; You’re doing a wonderful job and I acknowledge your hard work. You are a good Spider. You continue to munch on your well earned ham and I feel a warming swell of Proud Level 5. I get back to my feet, bad knees forcing out an involuntary throat-bark and I head back to the house. Pausing in the doorway I look back to you and give you an encouraging go-get-em air punch. Don’t we make quite the team.

Chapter 6

Sunday, May 21st, 10:47am

This morning I woke around 5am brimming with excitement about the day’s mission. I stayed in bed feigning Resignation Level 8 (head under pillow – intermittent grumbling – refusal to bathe) so that Leanne would feel incentivised to leave me alone while disincentivised to give me chores to do while she’s away. So when she closed the front door (unnecessarily hard) behind her around 8.30am I bolted out of bed and got moving. Dressed in black tracksuit bottoms and a black t-shirt, I imagined the house was my web and that I had eight agile long limbs arcing out from my torso. I moved around in a swift low crouch, propelling around corners and through doorways with animal efficiency. I ran up the stairs on all fours. I walked my hands along the surface of walls and tried to feel the world through vibration. On occasion I may have bared my fangs and made clicking noises through my teeth. I don’t know that spiders click but it just felt right. Either way, my heart soared. Electric toothbrush, egg timer, emulsion blender, disused wall clock, printer paper tray, Tupperware containers, wire coat hangers, defective space heater. My components. All flies in my web. I took a moment to stand completely still in the living room in a low squat, arms and legs reaching wide, just feeling the atmosphere. In the centre of my web. Still. Poised. Then I sprang back to life and collected the final items with ruthless animal acuity. My prey. Within fifteen minutes I had all the items I needed in a big IKEA bag sitting by the back door with my all-important notebook. We were ready to start building and my belly bubbled with Excitement Level 9. But not before toast.

I was in the kitchen biting into crunchy peanut butter toast when I heard the distinctive crinkley sound of an IKEA bag being tampered with. I was like, wait what! I dropped the toast and ran to the backdoor to see Aiden by the bag holding my notebook, flicking through its pages looking bewildered and oily. I tried not to let my face express the panic I felt at seeing the key to our project in his likely-dirty teenage hands. Of course, it turns out that today is a public holiday so he’s off school and I had no idea. He looked up at me from the notebook, his face further distorting after clocking my unusual outfit. He turned the notebook around and pointed to one of my star-like hotdog end-cap measurements. “Dad, is this a diagram of your arsehole?” He asked.

“No, Aiden.” I replied calmly. “It is the end-cap of a hotdog.” He turned the notebook back around and seemed to reevaluate the page with this new knowledge. He flicked through a few more pages and then peered into the IKEA bag, nudging it with his foot. “So, are you having a nervous breakdown or…?” I’d had enough. I stormed over to him and snatched the notebook from his hand, yanked the IKEA bag handles over my shoulder and stomped to the backdoor, losing a slipper along the way. Red-faced for the second time this week, I turned back to him, IKEA bag swinging, and shouted NO MORE KETAMINE FOR YOU before making my way to the garage. Nervous breakdown – what a joke. 

And now I’m here, Spiderboy. My face is still all hot with confrontation but we’ve got our big bag of components and once the adrenaline settles I’ll be ready to begin. We can start pulling these things apart to turn them into something new. Something amazing. I suppose that’s where the magic had always lived for me, in making things. There’s just something about taking individual parts, meaningless on their own, and turning them into something functional. Something with purpose. Because if something serves a purpose then it has value. A clock tells the time. A crane lifts things. The Fully Automated Jumbo Hotdog Arachnid Module simultaneously heats and decants a hotdog at a pace consistent for spider consumption. Or at least, in theory it does. 

I feel my jets cooling and I’m left considering my own purpose, here in the dingy quiet. I’d always tied it to being a husband, father, project manager, son. But now, I’m not so sure. What if I’ve failed at all of those things? Where do I provide value if not there? If I were a toaster I’d just heat bread and that’s all anyone would expect. Bread goes in. Toast comes out. Everyone happy. I’m not saying I wish I were a toaster but wouldn’t it be a weight off? I flick through my notebook perhaps hoping to find answers. Pages and pages of measurements, doodles and draft schematics. I guess this is it. The extent of my value right now. My offering. Perhaps my primary purpose for existing was so that you might eat an entire cooked jumbo hotdog. Maybe once you’ve eaten it my cosmic purpose will be fulfilled and I’ll evaporate into dust and contribute personally to the already dusty shelves. Well, if that is my ultimate purpose – the cog I am to be in the Great Machine of Life – then so be it. At least I’ll be useful to you. I pause on the page Aiden had pointed out to me and suppose that, what do you know, it does look like a diagram of an arsehole. Funny how I’d never noticed. He’s so perceptive, that boy. A sad smile curls my lips inwards as I reckon that he’s going to be just fine in the long run. Even if I were to end up dust on the shelves.

I look at the bag of components. I look at you, listening. Always listening. I take a big breath and taste WD40 at the back of my throat. I get to work. 

Chapter 7

Monday, May 22nd, 10:24am

It is done, Spiderboy. I toiled into the wee hours last night to complete the build but here it is. The Fully Automated Jumbo Hotdog Arachnid Module v1.0. The first of its kind. Ready for its inaugural launch. Okay, it looks a little more hodge-podge and perhaps not as sleek as I’d initially sketched out but all of the component parts came together beautifully and that’s what’s important. The electric toothbrush motor powers the reducing gear sequence that controls the printer tray rollers which will gradually convey the hotdog beneath the mounted heating element, protruding the hotdog end through an oiled PVC pipe at a consistent rate of 18.75(ish) millimeters per hour. This provides an estimated total 8 hour egress window for the whole hotdog to be slowly cooked and dispensed for you to nibble nibble nibble! So today’s the day we’ll answer the question who’s orbit I’ve been trapped in for weeks now – can a (particularly dashing) spider (you) eat a hotdog (jumbo) in one day? And though I’m excited to have an answer, I stand before you and recognise that the sweetness of our endeavour was never the destination, but the journey. Together. Bittersweet Level 9.  

But wasn’t the building wonderful? I swear the hours just flew by, I was so in the zone. I laughed and cursed and ran tests and failed tests and tried again and it was…it was just like being a kid again. Radio on, tools out, mess everywhere. The world didn’t exist beyond the reach of the fluorescent tube light. And then upon completing the final tests around 3.40am I found that I was still surging with creative energy so I spent another two hours fashioning this fun commemorative garment! I cut up a length of garden hose to make four extra limbs that I’ve secured to the back of this black waistcoat (which belongs to an old suit that doesn’t fit me anymore). So now I’ve got big long limbs! Just like you! What do you think of it, Spiderboy? Fit for the occasion? I give you a twirl and one of the limbs donks off a hanging watering can. And to finish off the arachnid-inspired look I pull an old pair of swimming goggles down over my eyes and wiggle them into place. I look down at you through the orange tinted lenses to gauge what you think of my homage and maybe it’s the sleep deprivation but I swear I see you give a little nod. You approve. I smile. Your approval has come to mean a lot to me in these past few weeks. 

I mean just look at you. As noble as ever. Don’t think I don’t notice how much bigger you’ve gotten! Ham diet has made you strong. My big strong boy. Doing so well for yourself out here. Well, I hope you’re ready because you’ve got some good eating ahead of you today. I lean in close. The orange tint of the goggles casts you and your little world in warm tones while the slight lens magnification lets me see you in particular detail. All your fuzzy puppy hairs and your many understanding eyes. I feel a swelling Gratitude Level 8 to have you in my life. Your legs twitch. Hungry. I twitch my hosepipe limbs in response. I’ve got you. Seems like as good a moment as any to begin. 

I run final checks on the FAJHAM. I start with a light feel of the key components and ensure the gear teeth are tightly meshed. Check. I wiggle the mounted heating element. Secure. I run a finger along the rollers. Rolling smoothly. I retrieve a jumbo hotdog from the jar on the worktop, shake loose some beads of brine, check for imperfections (none) and carefully place it into the receptor end. Loaded. My focus is momentarily broken by a flash of panic that I’ve forgotten to get something for Leanne’s birthday. No no no, it’s definitely in September. October? Focus! I nudge the hotdog left and right a few times to ensure it’s sitting straight and centred on the conveying rollers. Perfect. I step back to survey the whole operation. The FAJHAM is ready, positioned with the delivery tube just overlapping the edge of your web. You sit in its centre like a brave little astronaut ready for liftoff. 

I take a deep breath to steady my racing pulse and I flick the newly soldered on-switch. The heating element buzzes to life. The electric motor whirrs and the gear sequence slowly turns. The hotdog officially begins its gradual journey toward you. I start the stopwatch. All is in motion now. The work is done. Now is time to sit back and watch our glorious experiment unfold. What a thrill. I pick out another hotdog from the jar and hold it aloft. Brine drips on my hand but I’m too happy to care. I make a toast – in success or failure, here’s to us. Here’s to dreaming again. I take a triumphant bite and then slump into the garden chair I’ve set up as a front row seat. 

Chapter 8

Monday, May 22nd, 12:36pm

What’s happening? Did I fall asleep? Definitely fell asleep. Everything is orange-ey grey blur. What’s that smell? Burning? I seem to be very hot. Throat stinging. Why can’t I see? I rub my eyes and my fingers find hard plastic. Right – goggles. I pull them away from my eyes and rest them on my forehead. I squint as my vision adjusts. Eyes nip. Smoke. Lots. I cough. Smoke and fire? Oh Jesus – workbench; totally on fire. FAJHAM; totally on fire. And spreading fast. Panic. Panic Level 12. I get to my feet and stumble back, nearly tripping over garden chair and stepping on half-eaten toasting hotdog. I get my bearings and wade through the smoke to the garage door which is – oh shit ouch yep – very hot. Right hand definitely burnt. I shoulder the door open and wince against the blinding daylight in nippy eyes, feeling my way along the exterior wall to the outdoor tap and hose. I find it. Crank the tap. Grab the garden hose, now spraying water, briefly over slippers, and run back to extinguish flames. Oh lord, flames have become inferno. I reach garage door, feeling the heat pouring out and yank on hose to achieve good spraying angle. Hose pulls back against me. Yank again. No give. It’s too short. The hose is too short. I cough violently as thought occurs – I can’t put it out? I can’t put it out. It’s going to burn down. Dark smoke is pouring into the blue sky overhead and catching on the summer breeze. The garage door looks like a portal to hell. I think of you in there. I consider running in. It’s now or never. I feel my brittle knees ready to move forward. I take a step and hear a loud crack as something structural inside starts to give. My Spiderboy. I’m so sorry. 

I don’t remember getting here but I’m standing now on our street watching flames engulf my garage. Neighbours are gathering. They look at me and probably look at commemorative garment and goggles. But I can’t look away from the blaze. I’m paralysed, sweat drenched, hand throbbing, chest hollow. A shell of a man. A manshell. All empty. I think of you and my throat tightens. I can barely catch a breath. I feel something in me swell. And then it comes. First in a shaking lip. Then in little bursts of air. Then I’m on my knees and I’m sobbing and sobbing loud ugly sobs and finally oh god the tears come big tears jumbo tears roll down my face and drop to the asphalt and I couldn’t stop them if I tried so I don’t and each sob feels like a thousand sobs enough sobs to fill a fleet of hot air balloons with sob oh god I never knew you could feel this much. It’s too much. It’s everything at once. Fear remorse loss anger regret sorrow loneliness inadequacy disappointment loss loneliness loneliness loathing fear. They spin like symbols on a fruit machine that never stops. Never cashes out. I can’t move for the sob deluge that pours from me now. How to begin evaluating this? To assign a level? My EMS attempts to boot and crashes like overloaded software. No measuring now. No rationalising. There’s no capacity for that. Because you are gone now gone forever and all that is left it would seem are my great unstifled sobs. My hosepipe appendages wobble as my back heaves up and down. I am swept away in the flood. The world disappears. 

…

I feel a hand placed on my right shoulder. The unfamiliar physical touch startles me and brings me back. I feel it giving me a pat and then a gentle rub. It’s a hand that I know. So big now. “It’s alright, Dad.” Aiden says. His voice has a sweetness I’m unaccustomed to hearing. “It’ll be alright.” I feel the sobbing slow and and slow and then cease. I sniffle my runny nose. On my other side I feel fingers wrap around my non-burnt hand and squeeze it tight. I feel the engagement ring I bought when I was 22. Leanne says nothing and rests her head on my shoulder, finding that old spot she once occupied so often. Even through the smoke, her hair smells like fruit. They are here for me. Holding me. They don’t truly know why – why the sobs sobbed out of me as they did – but they’re here nonetheless. It occurs to me now that they’ve always been here. And maybe they’re everything I’ve ever needed. I look to the blue skies, past the dark bellowing smoke, to heaven, where you, my sweet Spiderboy, now reside. I mouth a silent thank you. 

Then I unbutton the commemorative garment, letting it drop to the ground and I wrap my arms around my family. I need only two arms for that.