I would have preferred to find a dead body. Or a serial killer. Or the dead body of a serial killer

"Ey, blanca. You in the bad part of the garden. Forget what you saw and keep walking, bitch."

This happened to me today.

It was pretty awful.

We're having our annual ten minutes of sun in England at present, and thus I was inspired to try and pull up some of the weeds that have taken over my back garden in a complex and insidious society. Once I'd yanked the large, more powerful players in the Game of Weeds, the smaller ones came out easily.

I was left standing on the battlefield. Alone. Victorious.

Around me, the strewn corpses of my fallen enemies lay in varying degrees of wilt, littering my garden with their flimsy little bodies.

No problem, right? In England we're supplied with a big green bin in which to dump all our gardening folderol, and so I waded towards it, a great lump of my weed massacre under one arm, and lifted the lid with my free hand--

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! WHAT IN THE NAME OF FUCKING FUCK IS THAT? IS THAT A FUCKING RAT?

No. It was just a spider BIG enough to be a rat.

I guess when you don't open a bin for six months, the King of all spiders moves in and makes it his territory. Actually, he was more of a drug lord cartel leader than a king. He had murder in mind as he looked at me with his cluster of gross eyes that might as well be FISH EGGS and wrrrrkkkkk that's why I don't eat roe anymore.

Kingpin druglord spider had no fear of me. It just looked at me as I froze, and sniggered when I let the lid go and ran screaming through the neighbour's fence, leaving a Jen-shaped hole in my wake, as is necessary in all comedic situations.

I think the fucker had a machete too, you know.