Even relatively benign insect life like ladybirds can suddenly multiply and fill the house as the whim takes them; this autumn there were small grasshoppers everywhere, inside and out; I've got nothing against them personally but they're not the most comely creatures to have staring you in the face when you go to the window first thing.
So one is understandably sensitised to these things. And may explain why, the other day, as I was walking along our relatively dim upstairs landing and saw something black scuttling at my feet, I panicked. I did not just panic, ladies and gents, I screamed. I did not just scream. I screamed blue murder. And hubby wasn't around. And the neighbours are far too far away to hear. So I started to run. And, guess what, the thing came after me. I ran in circles like a headless chicken and still it followed me, like some heat-seeking missile, all of three - all right, two inches long. I screamed again and kicked out. I turned and still it followed. Then out of the swirling depths of hysteria, a tiny spark of reason took a hold. I steeled myself to take a closer look. It was one of those cardboard reels of thread, one end of which was stuck to my leg. At which point, the hysteria gave way to almighty relief that neither hubby nor the neighbours had heard a thing.