billytheseal

There is a spider that lives in my living room. His name is Boris, and he's a nightmarish mesh of fur, legs and fangs. We hold a truce, Boris and I. I let him live unmolested behind the TV and DVD, and he ceases to wage a guerilla war upon me. It was really the only thing that I could do. He was winning, you see. I moved him outside, he moved back in. I hit him with a newspaper, he hissed at me and squirted a noxious green liquid. I chased him with the vacuum, he webbed up my prized copy of The Hobbit. It became apparent to me I was dealing with an arachnid Che Guevara, and I wouldn't come off well. Hence the truce.

And now...the scart wire from the DVD to the TV has become loose. To fix it, I will have to invade his territory. Boris is looking at me now with undisguised hatred, and is letting me know, in no uncertain terms, if I rummage around behind there, all bets are off. I'm currently listening to Mars:The Bringer of War. His fangs are gleaming in the candlelight. To battle.