Arachnophobia

Earlier, I freaked the f*ck out because a teeny tiny spider crawled onto my bed. Literally screamed and flapped around like a proper girl. My fear extends to an inability to even look at pictures of spiders. It actually makes me nauseous and JUMPY.

(As I typed that I felt something on my leg. Due to the nature of what I'm writing my mind said SPIDER and I ended up dropping my laptop. Smooth.)

My Mum think's it's hilarious to take pictures like this and pretend they're real. (For those of you not able to see that pic - it's a massive spider ON MY MUM'S HAND. She told me it had come in through the window at her friend's in Australia. Lies. It's a dead one in a museum. She once captured a massive house spider, put it in the sugar pot and put it next to me on the table after giving me a cuppa. Bitch. It's a good job that that's the only real child abuse I can recount in 23 years.)

I managed to let a teeny spider crawl on my hand at Bestival, mostly because I was so very drunk, but even then it made me feel all sick and awful afterwards.

London Zoo run an arachnophobia course, which comes recommended by Claudia Winkleman, but I can't go on it because, 1. It costs £130, and 2. I've no time left.

So what's a girl to do? We can laugh all we like, but for those that have ever seen me in the company of an arachnid you'll know that it's not something I find funny. Regardless of how much I'll joke. And how much of an idiot I look freaking out.

Seriously. I'd rather be locked in a room with a weeping angel than a spider.

Will it all get better when I'm out there? Or will I end up living a life that involves me checking under the toilet seat in a blind fear every time I need to go?

Tips welcomed. Unless they are sarcastic tips that involved links to pictures of spiders. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

Ding Ding! Round Two with Paxo

Note: I typed this on the internet point at conference and it seems it didn't post. Enjoy hearing from my past self.

Some of you may remember my triumph (ahem) on Newsnight last year. Well, for some reason they wanted me on again. Despite my protests of "No, no. I won't put my hand up this year", I did, because I'm a gobby cow and Phillip Hammond pissed me off royally about the EU.

Anyway, Paxo was nice to me this year. So all is forgiven. Until, possibly, tonight when I'm on again. I'd recommend watching - it's going to be 80 women and Boris Johnson. Genius.

For those wishing to laugh at me, I'm about 25 minutes in... Enjoy the way they CUT BACK TO ME when I least expect it.

Post Edit: I didn't get my oar in on Tuesday. I did, however share a lift with Paxo. I smiled, he raised his eyebrows. It was all very awkward. Which, as those of you who know me well will expect, I absolutely loved.

1st October 2006

Everytime I think about how scared I am about leaving, I re-read my diary entry from my first day at University:

I hate it. My flatmates are lovely - Sarah is mad, Beth is quiet but reminds me of Soph and Rosie seems cool. But I'm just so homesick, the thought of being here for three years is too much and it depresses me. I want to go home so much, I would even be happy to go back two years and do my A-levels all over again. My future here is just so uncertain and I don't like it. The only time I felt peaceful yesterday was when I forgot I was leaving [home]. I'm crying now and I shouldn't be - I'm a student, I've dreamt of this for the whole of my life but the reality is so far away from my conceptions of it - in my mind I didn't miss home this much.

(Now, ignoring the lack of paragraphs and First World Problems tone of the entry, I think we can see that I wasn't such a happy bunny on my first night away from home. At all. Most people celebrate their first night of freedom by throwing up on a one night stand; I ate pesto pasta and moped.)

I then like to read the next entry, a week later on Sunday 8th October:

Can't believe it's only been a week. I feel so at home here and so happy with my mates. When I think about how much I hated it when I first got here......I must have been mad.

The rest of the update is primarily concerned with boys and drunken stories, so I've left that bit out. No one wants to hear my 18-year-old self's thoughts on those matters.

To summarise: Yes, emigrating is shit scary. But I'm pretty sure I'll be OK. Aus won't require me to write essays about Kant and has lovely weather. The same cannot be said about my (beloved) University city.

(I've honestly not made this up. If I had, trust me, I would've made my younger self sound far more eloquent and worldly wise.)