Blues for an unknown spider

This is a photograph of a dead spider I found on the bathroom window-sill. I photographed it in situ - like the police do before they remove the body from a 'crime scene'. But I don't class this as a crime scene. I don't know how the spider died, but I don't suspect foul play. I have not yet, however, removed the body.

I am not an arachnologist but I would say this spider died of starvation - I have not seen many flies in the bathroom - or I wonder could it have been affected by some toxic (to spiders) chemical in the various bathroom cleaners we employ. Or perhaps it simply died of old age. How long do spiders live? I don't know. It's hard to tell the age of a spider, anyway, even when alive, but when dead and dessicated like this - it is nigh on impossible.

As well as not being able to ascertain the cause, I am unable to confirm the time of death. I don't think the spider was there yesterday, but it may have been and I simply hadn't noticed it. (I've had a lot on my mind). On the other hand it may have become deceased some place else (like the ceiling) and then drifted down here later. I know spiders are quite at home hanging from a ceiling, but for how long after death can they cling on? I simply don't know. In fact the incident has brought home to me how little I know about spiders and, more importantly, how little we all know about death.
Of course, the spider, lacking consciousness (or so we are told) is unaware of the approach of the Grim Spider Reaper. Wouldn't it be nice if we could switch off that part of our consciousness that makes us aware of our mortality? Just that one part? Some may argue that that would take away the greater 'meaning' of life. What meaning?

Sorry Anna, I am  prevaricating, playing for  time. The truth is (or might be, or could be - and it may even change tomorrow) I don't kinow where I am up to - in my head. I don't know what to say to you. I wanted to begin this post by saying 'Well, Anna, the wardrobe door really swung open for me!' But that wouldn't be quite accurate - even as a metaphor.
It was good seeing you, though. A few little strands of grey in that beautiful, natural (I should know) blonde hair, but still my Anna, not looking a day older  than that last fateful occasion when they came for me at Wynorin. And you were wearing those shoes!
It was so good to see you. I know you wanted a conjugal visit - so did I - but Freddie did not. And I think he may have been right. Perhaps we should take it slowly, considering my rather unstable condition at the moment. As Freddie said, "A good fuck can do wonders for one's health - mental and physical. But a bad fuck can undo weeks of successful therapy." And I don't think he said that entirely out of jealousy - oh yes, I saw him looking at you! But I think he's got both our interests at heart. Anyway he did say you could visit anytime, didn't he? I know that you are reliant upon Brian, and his days off work. Incidentally, he seems a nice chap. I was surprised how short he is - I marvel that he manages to reach the pedals of his bus. Or perhaps he just looks short, standing by your side.

I am sorry I have taken so long in writing. I know I asked you to give me time to assimilate all that had gone during your visit, and I do appreciate your understanding - and patience.  I intended to write earlier but I have had one of my "low" periods and this has been compounded by a bout of gastric flu during which I have pebble-dashed the lavatory pan many times over. This activity has now ceased but I am left feeling like a piece of chewed string. The other inmates have been quite sympathetic. Clive even wrote me a little poem:

Ode to Gastroenteritis


You shit
And you shit,
And you think - well, that's it .
But it's not, 'cos you're shitting again.
Then to put Top Hat on it,
You're starting to vommit -
Look out! Here it comes again.

I will close now. The sun is shining brightly and I may take a stroll around the grounds. They have flowers and plants and other green stuff. I don't know the names of any of them, but I have my camera and will take some photos.

(I have now removed the body and flushed it down the lavatory. A sort of burial at sea. I didn't say a prayer, or give thanks for a spidery life. I just said "Cheerio" - and pulled the lever.)

I think of your each day. Please write soon - and visit when you can.

Your (next time?) lover,

George