How I gave my landlady a red knee trembler

I used to live in a large Victorian house in south-east London with my landlady and her boyfriend. We all shared the living room, dining room and kitchen and got on very well with each other. My landlady and her boyfriend were also extremely understanding and supportive of my frequently changing hobbies which invaded the communal living space.

There was the time I boiled a rat's skull in a saucepan to make customised jewellery. And the time I stripped my 750cc motorbike in the living room, dumping a tank full of petrol over the carpet. Then there was the stand-off between my 11ft python and one of the cats, which destroyed the curtains in a bid to escape.

Apart from these things, life in the house was straightforward. We shared the cleaning and washing-up. But one job was mine alone. That was removing spiders from the house. My landlady might not have minded snakes but she was very afraid of spiders. I knew this when I bought my tarantula.

As you can imagine, she was horrified at the prospect of living in the same house as a Mexican red knee, but I convinced her of my need for this spider. I pleaded his rarity - there were perhaps only a few hundred left in the world (not including the 20 or so in the pet shop). I told her London Zoo was starting a breeding programme and I had a male which was even rarer. Naturally, they would be interested in using my spider as a mate for its females. I persuaded her that it would be good company for my iguana. I promised that my baby spider of one inch across would definitely not get any bigger (I omitted to tell her that it was classified as a bird-eating spider with an adult leg span of about six inches).

Finally, when I promised faithfully to keep him locked in a box in a locked glass aquarium in my locked room, she reluctantly agreed.

The day the tarantula escaped, my landlady was at work. I had taken the box out of the aquarium to feed him and left the box on my desk with the lid closed but not pushed shut and gone to make a coffee. I heard a crash from my bedroom. I rushed upstairs to find that the iguana had in a fit of companionship jumped from his perch on to the box containing the spider knocking it on to the floor. The tarantula had made his escape.

I assumed that with a little patience I would recapture the spider, considering that he was now a good five inches across and very heavily built. Unfortunately, I hadn't closed the door and in spite of my massive search the spider was not found. By now, I could feel the panic rising, realising that if my landlady ever found out she would not only evict me but would never be able to step foot in her own house again.

I could never admit that the tarantula was at large, so my story had to be conclusive and final. Then it came to me - the iguana ate the spider. Brilliant. Providing it never occurred to my landlady that iguanas are vegetarian, I would be in the clear. Remarkably she did believe me and until now no one has discovered the truth.

Well, I say no one. The house was sold shortly afterwards and my landlady moved to Norfolk. If you consider the spider's living conditions - nice, warm bathroom, plenty of dark corners near the storage tank, lots of bugs, no shortage of water - I'd reckon his chances of survival were pretty good. I wonder how big he is now.

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