Sunday 25 October 2015

What is that stuff called?


It's one of those crisp, sunny, Autumn days when tiny spiders drift through the air on single strands of whatever you call the stuff which comes out of their arse which they make webs with. There must be a single word for it, but it is not 'web'.

I leaned out the window and watched the first Africans run past, ahead of the thousands of others who are taking part in the marathon which passes through Bath today. They are still coming past - there must be hundreds of them. I think it is Bristol to Bath and back, or maybe the other way round.

I came back in and found one of the little spiders dangling in front of my nose, so I put it out of the window again. I like to think it has hitched a ride all the way to Bristol on one of the runners, but they really don't need to hitch rides - they are pretty good at catching the breeze on their own.

They also travel a lot further than the 13 miles to Bristol. They have been know to point their little backsides in the air and release their foothold (all 8), then drift so high on a favourable breeze that they end up at 30,000 feet in the paths of airliners, cadging lifts all the way to the USA and beyond.

I have one rather dim-witted and short-sighted friend who is keen on the Autumn sport of pheasant shooting. One day rather like this one, he was out with a shooting party - all dressed up in tweeds and plus-twos - and as the rest of the party lowered their guns and waited for the next flush to appear, he raised his, let it off and shouted, "Got it!"

Nobody else had seen a single bird in the sky, and said so. He insisted he had shot the lone pheasant, and even pointed them to the spot where he saw it fall. They went to the place, but no bird - dead or alive - could be found.

After a bit of detective work, he finally realised that a little spider had lowered itself from the peak of his cap and into his unfocussed vision, and when he pulled the trigger of the shotgun, the thing had dropped sharply down in shock.

19 comments:

  1. I don't know anything about spiders webs but I am sure Britta can help you although even after reading her post today I am still none the wiser but you might be.

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    1. That's really strange. I have only just read Britta's post and didn't know it features the stuff which comes out of spider's arses. There must be an 8-sylabled word in German for it, but - again I would be none the wiser.

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  2. Believe it or not, it is called gossamer. Gossamer thread, therefore, is redundant. Take that, you poets.

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    1. Isn't that a description, as in 'gossamer condoms'? The thread continues...?

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    2. Gossamer is the noun for a thread spun by a spider.
      Descriptors are adjectives or adverbs or -- oh, you get it, I know.

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    3. Thanks, Joanne. I will take your word for it, because I am sure you are - most likely - right.

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  3. I see you have help in Somerset and Avon with what roads are for with instructions written in large letters on the surface. We progressed away from the need for it in Norfolk some years back.

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    1. That's because hardly anyone can read in Norfolk.

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    2. Ha ha! With our webbed feet and six fingers we hardly have the need for roads at all of course.

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    3. Surely those road markings should be in all EU languages? I don't understand Traffic or Taxis, for instance. It should be Trácht and Tacsaithe.

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    4. During the time of the Christmas Market, we have Welsh-speaking guides so that they can all find the way to where they can buy all the tat. They come by coach (cwm by, probably) and the drivers are well-versed in Anglo Saxon and just disgorge them right next to the Abbey.

      Birmingham - being the Venice of the North - has invested heavily in the aquatic systems in order to attract tourists from Norfolk, but when they get there, they can find nothing to buy. It's a minefield.

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    5. Well, I say 'nothing to buy' in Birmingham, but they do have regular arms sales in the NEC. The trouble is that the Norfolk folk are more interested in regular feet than arms.

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    6. Oh, and my use of the word 'minefield' was a misjudgement given the above. Some people in Angola would give their right arm for a webbed foot.

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  4. Anything is better than actually shooting a pheasant - our shooting season started here yesterday - I hate the taste - would much rather see them fully feathered, scratching about in the fields.

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    1. I know you are against shooting game-birds, Weave, but I don't think pheasant would be here at all if it were not for shooting. I would rather eat game than cloistered chickens, but then I actually like strong meat.

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    2. I had some muntjac the other day which a friend had shot. It was jolly tasty.

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    3. Muntjac are indeed very tasty. They are not indigenous to this country, and believe they originate from China. The first time I saw a roadkill Muntjac, I thought it was an elaborate joke because of the huge, sharp tusks on the otherwise cute little Disney character. Apparently they know how to use them in a corner as well, so watch out. I am avoiding any bad-taste jokes involving President Xi with this comment.

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  5. I see I am far to late to teach you the word 'gossamer', and also to comment on the writing on the road, so I will say nothing.

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    1. That's a lot of words for nothing. I am sure that there are many things you could teach me, but the word 'gossamer' is not one of them.

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