It’s nearly  October.  Already.  Again.  The days are notably shorter than just a month ago and a chill is in the air.  It is coming: winter.

There are two things that occur at this time of year: one that I can’t do anything about and one that I can’t do anything about.

The first is the manifestation of huge house spiders, the males emerging from wherever the hell they’ve been growing into hand-sized monsters, running about the place, fuelled by testosterone and the desire to mate.  I don’t know what they mate with, some of them are big enough to give my dog a run for his money.  But they appear, just there on the wall near the junction with the ceiling.  You keep a wary eye on them as they shuffle along, just knowing that any second, their defiance of gravity and all other natural forces will fail. And then they’re gone.  But where to?

Having been fearful of the  eight-legged beasties since childhood, I now tolerate them so long as: a) I can see them; b) they’re not directly above me; or c) they’re not running across the floor within three metres of me.  When scenario a) no longer applies, I just know that b) or c) are imminent and that c) requires me to spring into action and dispatch the invader with much stamping and screaming before the dog has a go and throws up as soon as his tongue makes contact.

I can’t bear the thought of touching one or having one on me.  (That’s what she said).  My morning routine now includes a full shakedown of my dressing gown and all towels after a nasty incident when one crawled up the back of my bathrobe on onto my shoulder after I’d taken a shower.  Having just about avoided the need to have another shower, I vowed not to be caught out that way again.  The nasty fucking bastard.

All I can be thankful for is the kindness of evolution for not bringing us flying spiders.  Give it a few million years though, mark my words.

In addition to my spider problem, a slightly more serious issue seems to affect me as summer draws to a close and the dark months approach: agoraphobia.  I hate leaving the house, for anything.  Even going to the car or the bin fills me with dread in case a neighbour is out and about and I have to acknowledge them or, dread of dreads, interact with them verbally.  I get to the stage where I listen out for signs of life before opening my gate, then shuffle back to the safety of my spider-infested dwelling before anybody has the chance to show themselves.

Work is a whole different horror, having to interact with colleagues, or shuffle along crowded pavements behind hoards of smartphone, huge bag and umbrella-addicted students who have little in the way of social awareness and a remarkable inability to operate a revolving door… or their limbs to climb a single flight of stairs.

My neighbours are perfectly nice people, I’d rather just not have any.  I’m incredibly fortunate in that my colleagues are capable, engaging, witty, friendly, really good folks.  Students are just students: young people from all over the world experiencing the excitement (and untold terrors) of their first weeks of the new term, of their new lives, and their new friends… who they simply must walk with five-abreast along a narrow pavement while gouging the eyes of innocent passers by with their umbrellas, or failing that, knocking them into the path of an oncoming bus with their massive shoulder bags.

No matter how much I rationalise though, winter Tina will never like people and winter Tina will do as much as possible to avoid unnecessary interaction with all but her closest friends and family.  This is pretty much the same as spring, summer and autumn Tina.  Tina is a misanthrope.  Tina has the t-shirt.

I have this desire to live in a humble abode, at least a mile from my nearest neighbour, away from any main roads, with 200MB broadband and 4g mobile, and a good pub/restaurant within walking distance.  I’d have a fifteen foot wall around my property and a tannoy to alert any ne’erdowells to gerroffmyfuckinland!