When I was about 19 or 20 I was driving through a genteel, leafy suburb on the north shore of Sydney when that most menacing of all Australian wildlife – a huntsman spider – raced across my windscreen. On the inside.
My arachnophobia is so intense that I would have vastly preferred it if a great white shark had crashed through the window. I’m surprised I didn’t lose the will to live immediately and simply died on the spot. Instead, I screamed, wrenched the wheel left and ran up the gutter, before hurling myself into a gasping panic on the kerb. I then proceeded to have what could only be described as a very loud, very visible breakdown.
A few passersby asked if I was OK. I spluttered out the story and one by one they shrugged. “Oh you’ll be fine.” “Just get in, stop being so ridiculous,” jeered one.
I would not be fine. I would not “just get in”. My only options were to walk home or accept this patch of grass as my new residence until I could arrange to have the car burned to the ground.
Just as I was wondering, between sobs, exactly what sort of company I’d need to contact for “car burning services”, a woman pulled up in a pristine white Volvo. She had a perfectly coiffed blond bob and neat jeans and two young kids in the backseat who were no more than six years old. She got out of the car and asked me what was wrong, and I howled out the story, fully expecting her to recoil with a terror that matched mine and speed off in a cloud of Happy by Clinique.
What happened next astonishes me to this day.
Without missing a beat, she patted me kindly on the shoulder and chirped “Let’s have a look shall we?” She rolled up her crisp white shirt sleeves, jumped into the front seat and began feeling around the entire car – under the dash, under the seats, everywhere.
I stood alongside and gaped, barely able to comprehend her bravery. I couldn’t have been more impressed or relieved if she had produced two bazookas and full-scale body armour from her boot.
After a few minutes of placing herself in the greatest of harm’s way (what if it runs on to her arm?), the spider declined to appear. So she bundled me briskly into her car with the kids (who were staring wide-eyed at the weird, hysterical lady) and drove me to her house where she dropped off the children, before reemerging with a can of insect spray. She then drove back to my car and drenched every millimetre of the interior so thickly it formed a white fog over every surface. “Maybe a bit more?” I squeaked.
Her duty complete, she hugged me and sped off in a cloud of Happy by Clinique mixed with Mortein. And somehow, gathering every ounce of strength I had left in my body, I got back into my car and drove home.
I never did find the spider and I was never comfortable driving that car again, but I knew on a practical level there was no way it could have survived that aerosol Armageddon. And to this day, I hold that valiant stranger up as one of Australia’s greatest living heroes. Thank you for your service.
