Chapter Eighteen

Directory of Humor Blogs

The Hundred and One Worries of Tiny Libbedy Spider

One of the great advantages of being a teeny tiny spider (as opposed to having been born, say, an elephant, in which case one would be a somewhat huge creature who could not even find a decent pair of shoes in the high street) was that one was, well, possessed of absolutely perfect, miniscule dimensions. In fact, only red velvet mites were smaller and yet still visible, but they were so very minute they were forced to make their living as hats and fashion accessories for chic lady maggots, and were seen only at weddings and ladies’ days at the races. A teeny tiny person who is a perfect size (such as Rumpus Libbedy Spider) can literally go anywhere she wants, completely unseen if she chooses, and can have a great deal of fun spying on larger, more cumbersome creatures and, in general, getting into all sorts of mischief. On the other hand, being a teeny tiny spider does have its disadvantages as well (albeit only a few). One must be extremely careful when very very small that one is never mistaken for a Miniature Boiled Baby Chicken with Parsley Sauce or a Lesser Roly Poly Pudding. It is also important, if one happens to be a Rumpus Libbedy Spiderling (or something similar), that one remembers to locate one’s mother as soon as possible (never scolding her too severely for getting lost) and above all that one avoids being trod upon by Oinka The Pig.

Fortunately for tiny Libbedy she was nothing if not supremely confident. To her, advantages far outweighed any possible disadvantages (or, as she liked to point out, “has Oinka The Pig ever actually trod upon anyone?”). She was fully aware of the fact that, without really trying and with neither a booklet of instructions nor several architects’ blueprints, she had single-handedly built the most beautiful house the world had ever seen. Furthermore, hadn’t she of her own volition become fully proficient in the arts of semi-edible cookery and spotlessly scalded laundry? Hadn’t she become an expert practitioner in the science of air guitar? And on top of all these accomplishments, was she not (in spite of the quality and quantity of the competition) the cutest and most fetching tiny spiderling in the whole of Miss Havering’s Bog? “I’m cuter than a snooter’s hooter, only with better taste,” she liked to maintain, and no one dared contradict her.

Now, if only she could keep her mind focussed on the task ahead, and that was to bring her mother Olivia and all her brothers and sisters safely to her beautiful new home.

Naturally, the first thing to do was to sit very quietly (not eating anything that crunched or squeaked, such as ice cream or devilled blancmange or anchovy paste wrapped in lettuce) and encourage her senses to instruct her as to everything that was going on around her. The floodwaters from Owld Misther Bucket had pretty much subsided, fortunately without wreaking much if any havoc (and wasn’t it a blessing that so many of the bog’s denizens were so accomplished in such skills as flying at a moment’s notice or swimming faster than the most virulent tidal tide?). A few flower stalks were bendy or broken, but that was only to be expected, and the flowers themselves didn’t really mind. After all, as far as they were concerned they could grow new stalks any hour of the day or night and at a moment’s notice. Stalks were such trivial and useless appendages, worth nothing much at all and certainly not enough to bother about. Besides, it was only the poorer class of plant that sustained the most unsightly and permanent damage; the ‘quality’ could (and did) lift their skirts above their heads and run to higher ground. While such a talent had shown itself to be less than attractive during the most virulent of Atlantic gales, at such times the fashion-police tended to be far too occupied with their own survival to notice (not that they didn’t write about it later in their weekly columns, but nobody who mattered really cared about their opinions).

Looking around, Tiny Rumpus Libbedy Spider thought to herself that the countryside looked neither worse nor better than on an average day. “Anyway,” she whispered to herself, so softly as to not be overheard by even the most curious of dandelions, “who really cares about the flowers? All they do is grow like weeds and trip one up and get in the way.” After which she added, “not you, of course, Miss-Plant-that-became-Misther-House. You are fairly perfect, more or less as faithful and obedient as a pet potted grub (in fact, you are practically an insect), and I shall love you forever.”

While she was looking around and surveying the aftermath of the torrent, Tiny Libbedy Spider was surprised to find that the location of her new house was on high ground, well above the reach of spring floods, yet shielded in such a way by rocks and high clumps of gorse as to be safe from The Wind. That in itself was an enormous relief (especially since Libbedy had not been thinking about such practical matters when building the house), because The Wind was forever on the prowl and loved nothing better than to catch bog denizens’ little homes in its fingers and throw them over the western boundary walls and into the sea.

Libbedy was also pleased that her home was awkward to reach by all but miniscule winged creatures (or acrobats). There were no paths or stairs leading up to it, and since it was located in such a cramped and obscure pinpoint of land, she was fairly certain she would be not be bothered by the nocturnal excavations of shrews or badgers or hedgehogs or the noses of foxes as they snuffled (in that particularly annoying way of theirs) in one’s ear, or by any other largish and inconvenient creatures. Above all, there was the house’s proximity to both the quaking end of the deepest bog hole and to the shiny (and quite monumental) protuberance, supposedly dating from some Neolithic age. Libbedy recalled having read about it in school, and also remembered the uncomfortable and boring field trips, during which her shoes were inevitably ruined and her skin would break out in red splotches from The Bog Faeries’ spittle. How mean those Bog Faeries were, obsessed with their hair (which was green and always falling out) and with keeping all the best views for themselves. Hence, their fury whenever anybody else took picnic hampers (or binoculars) to the protuberances. The stupid creatures could not tell the difference between picnickers (or schoolchildren) and property developers, even though they were well-known for their Academies for Up and Coming Real Estate Agents (“Greed and Avarice is Sweet and Nice, Without Which You Will Stink Like Mice”). “I do wish the wind would blow THEM into the sea for once, instead of us” was a common lament heard over and over at bingo in the community centre and over hot scones and cups of tea at Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s Tea Cosy.

The one thing (or at least one of the things) which had fascinated Tiny Libbedy about the Neolithic Protuberances (Protuberancæ) was the single surviving hieroglyphic, a strangely decorative “H” standing rampant at one end of a monstrous grille and surrounded by a two ferociously predatory griffins. The entire effect was unpleasantly aggressive and looked as decrepit and aged as it was meant to.

After standing and staring at the surrounding countryside and allowing various and sundry thoughts to zig and zag through her brainpan for a considerable time (in reality the best part of the afternoon), Tiny Rumpus Libbedy Spider decided that, in spite of everything, her ears had failed to pick up anything out of the ordinary. No cries for help, no calls from her mother, only the familiar chirps and rustles and buzzes she had taken for granted every day of her life. In fact, she was surrounded by good comfortable, comforting sounds. Nothing was out of place. Everything was the picture of tranquillity.

To be on the safe side (for she had a slightly suspicious nature, typical of her kind) she spent the ensuing hour on the alert, scanning the bog, the surrounding walls, and all the mighty rocks. From what she could see from the top of her little hill, everything appeared quiet. “Just as it should be,” she whispered silently into the breeze, “but never at this time of the afternoon, and never on this side of the bog.” For, in spite of her youth (less than a the age of a common hiccough, if truth be told), Libbedy Spider had travelled a great deal, all the way from the east boundary wall to the west and back again. Not only that but many of her uncles and aunties had at one time or other been scattered by the winds. To put it bluntly, she had family everywhere, and being a socially minded little person she believed it her duty and joy to visit every single member as often as possible. As a consequence, when it came to the ins and outs of Miss Havering’s Bog, no one was more knowledgeable than she. “Everything is just as it should be,” she repeated, “but earlier in the day. At noon and not a minute later. And not here, but in the far eastern reaches, out near the bamboo shoots and carnivorous lilies and the multicoloured bugs who play steel drums and dance the night away.” She idly snatched a floating willow mitelet from the air, where it had been drinking its afternoon cup of cocoa and playing the banjo, and ate it. “The question is,” she mused, “ why?”

“Of course,” she conjectured, amazed at her perceptivity, “it might also be that I, being young and free and beautiful and fabulously talented, have become far too knowing for my own good. If I were given to watching daytime television or reading celebrity magazines or romantic novels, I might also be tempted to surrender myself to a world where, at this time of day, all was restful and serene, with husbands at work, children at school or at play, and housewives enjoying a few minutes of tranquillity in an otherwise hectic day. But,” she snorted, “that is piffle and anyone with a brain bigger than a gnat’s bottom knows it!” What was true was that everything was as it should be in an ordinary bog on an ordinary day. But the thing was, there was nothing ordinary about Miss Havering’s Bog. There never had been, not ever; not even for a minute.

For a start, Miss Havering’s Bog was endowed with an enlightened social fabric and an enlightened educational system. It was peopled by a nice little population and everyone living there had nice little lives. And every afternoon at thirty-four minutes past one o’clock (sharp) the nice little Victorian Gothic Clock Tower in the centre of the nice little market square echoed with the fortissimo song stylings of the infamous Oinka The Pig. The question was, where were these song stylings today? Whether or not one actually believed in the existence of Oinka The Pig (and Tiny Libbedy Spider, who was a loyal friend, refused to speculate on the subject), the fact remained that Oinka had been a fixture in the bog for a very long time. Every day at precisely thirty-four minutes past one in the afternoon. Without fail. And without the daily annoyance of her song stylings (which had to be heard to be believed), Miss Havering’s Bog was in danger of becoming, well, just another bog. And becoming just another ordinary bog was something no denizen wanted, least of all someone as winsome and frolicsome as Tiny Rumpus Libbedy Spider. It simply would not do to become ordinary and boring and tedious. Ordinary and boring and tedious led to expendability, and expendability was (according to the denizens of Miss Havering’s Bog) the first step on the road to mattering so little that you might as well be dead.

All of this worried Libbedy Spider a great deal, for it meant she had a problem on her hands which was much more urgent than finding her beautiful mother and sisters and brothers and bringing them to her new house.

“I’ve got to stop the end of the world before it moves into the bog and claims it for one of its own!” thundered rumpus Libbedy Spider. “I’ve got to find dear, sweet Oinka The Pig (whether or not she exists) and persuade her to sing again!”