I know that spiders are our darling eight-legged chums and mean us no harm, and I should probably have kept it around to deal with the current moth infestation. Unfortunately, they scare and squick me above all God's creatures.
My arachnophile flatmate is away until Sunday and I needed a shower now, having just got in from karate. Aware that the more I hesitated and thought about it the worse it would get, I grabbed an envelope and the largest plastic pot I could find, had a couple of practice goes, then marched back into the bathroom.
The spider was remarkably cooperative about getting onto the envelope without any leg-trapping, but crikey it scuttled fast. Ugh. I transferred everything to the open window, shook my hands convulsively, did an inventory to check I hadn't been left holding a spider, and realised that in my haste and horror I had thrown an unopened letter marked PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL somewhere into the darkened garden below.
That's when I decided the situation called for not just 'a drink' as I had promised myself, but the 49% vol. French gin.