Peripheral Vision

Being the second week of our holiday, my beloved and I changed accommodation to a new holiday home this morning.

We were so ecstatic to not have to wait for the official check-in time of 2.00pm that we may have gotten slightly carried away. When I checked the time on the clock as we arrived it said 5.17am.

It was pitch dark, which made the move harder, but it was worth it for us both to take our first shower in a week in an indoors, fully enclosed, bathroom.

Belatedly, I have discovered that our new accommodation also comes with faults, albeit faults that I shall endure with more good grace than I endured a large spider.

The decor theme of the house is wood and glass. It's very pretty. Even after I've walked into the table for the fourth time, or banged by head on the rangehood for the fifth, I can still appreciate the elegant balance they bring to the home.

Unfortunately, due to my short-sightedness (of my eyes, not some sort of metaphysical failing) I cannot see glass furniture out of the corners of my eyes. Large glass frames obscure much of my vision above, below, and to the sides, and as they're single vision glass they're not cleverly designed to perfect my vision from every angle.

Pity, because I'm already feeling quite a few negative effects. The sighs of admiration at my brown legs will be partially due to them being covered in bruises.

If this was my own place, I'd simply resolve the issue by the prolific application of masking tape. As it isn't, I'm just going to have to learn to scan.

The irony is not lost on me that my peripheral vision can pick up scuttling legs at ten yards, the only benefit of which is to make me feel unsafe and on edge most of the time, and yet something that could, and has, genuinely hurt me I remain oblivious to.

In other news it's a scant few hours (24-ish) until the release of my third novel, Breathe and Release. That means today is the last chance that you have to pre-order it for your Kindle.

If you don't you'll miss out on that lovely feeling when you wake on the 31st of August to find that your Kindle went out and bought you a book just because it knew you'd enjoy it. (I can't be the only one who feels that, right?)

I'll tuck the link HERE out of the way all unobtrusive-like so you don't feel any pressure.

Persistent

I dislike spiders. I used to hate them and fear them in equal measure, but I'm too old for such extreme emotions these days.

Now, when I see a spider of a size I object to, I calmly ask my darling if he could remove it from the dwelling. That's why he's my darling.

Inside, of course, I still do the spider dance of gwagh (that's the most accurate rendition of what comes out of my mouth that I can type) along with the obligatory jerky hand movements and screams.

Outside, however, all is calm.

There was an incident eighteen months ago (in Australia of course) where a huntsman decided to take up residence behind our curtain. The dance didn't stay inside that time, but I think that was a hand-sized permission slip, right there.

Tonight, I was headed to the fridge when I encountered a two-inched objection scuttling across the door.

My darling was in fine form and safely caught it inside a teacup. Not as easy as it sounds because the spider was on top of the cupboard in which the said teacup was contained. It then used the opportunity of the door opening to investigate inside the cupboard.

Never mind. It was done.

Half an episode of Hannibal later and an objectionable sized spider came through the French doors. It only took a second to recognise IT WAS EXACTLY THE SAME SPIDER.

I kid you not.

Unfortunately, the second capture didn't go quite so smoothly as the first. At least it didn't from the spider's point of view. It went fine from my perspective. And that's just working on the assumption that spider's need eight legs for some reason. Not five.

Outside toilets

The holiday home that we're staying in at the moment is rather lovely.

There's a well-equipped kitchen, a big super queen-sized bed, a deep pool with adjustable sun loungers so you can dry yourself in the sun until you're so hot you need to take another dip in the pool, and a nice indoor-outdoor flow.

What it doesn't have is an inside toilet.

I don't mean it has an outhouse, at least not in the traditional ill-constructed smelly fly-ridden type of way. It's just that the bathroom isn't connected to the rest of the house.

It's also an open-air bathroom, which means that you can sit on the toilet and look up into the stars.

Well, not really. I've found it's more likely I'm staring around making sure that no four, six, nor eight-legged creatures are stalking me hungrily.

And it would be hard to make out the stars past the flickering fluorescent light and the haze of flying insects it attracts.

I'm probably not putting it in its best light. Most of the time it's fine, apart from the extra trek required, but there was an incident the other night which put me right off.

I'd fallen asleep at around eight NZ time, a little earlier that our usual bedtime, and it was only six o'clock local time.

When I woke up at midnight I needed to use the facilities, so put on a dress, my sandals, and my glasses, before unlocking the back door, putting the outside light, unlocking the bathroom door and then pulling on the cord for the florescent light.

I then scanned for danger. A couple of lizards scampered about, not sure if the light was something to bask in, or run away from, a small insect threw itself heartily into trying to smash its life out against the florescent, and a cane toad sat in the corner of the shower and glared at me.

I hesitated in the doorway while I pondered my options. I could brazen it out, I could wait and see if it hopped back to wherever it came from, or I could retreat indoors to battle my bladder until the morning.

Fairly certain, which is not the same as certain by any stretch, that cane toads are only toxic if you touch their skin or their slimy trails, I opted to brazen it out. I stared at the toad and it stared at me ad I went about my business.

I then went back inside and told my darling that there was a toad in the shower, and we'd need to be careful in the morning.

Turned out we didn't as the toad was long gone by then. My darling started to refer to it as the figment (of my imagination).

It was only at midday that I thought of another option. I could have chanced my luck, picked up the ugly toad, and given it a nice big kiss. Sometimes, a handsome Prince would come in handy.