I know that autumn can be lovely, season of mists and mellow fruitfulness and all that jazz but, as the sun sinks lower on the horizon and the dew rises in the grass my heart starts to sink. Autumn is the season of daddy-long-legs, the one creature which strikes a morbid fear into my heart. It’s all very well for people to stand in a field as crowds of these long legged, clattering winged horrors rise around them and say, “but they won’t hurt you.” I KNOW THAT, my logical, 21st century brain knows they won’t hurt me but, the problem is, some deep rooted, prehistoric, reptilian brain tells me that all of hells horrors are present in that insect. My week has been one of trauma as I have bravely walked through fields of writhering legs, dodged incoming missiles of belly flopping, high flying cyanide packages, moved silently through the hoards waiting to ambush from the grass. I try to rationalise it, ‘they are only insects,’ ‘there is no danger, they have their place in the world.’ I talk to myself as I walk through the fields. “you’re doing well, look up, don’t look down.” But it is no good, by Wednesday I was reduced to a squealing, hyperventilating mess as I became surrounded by long legged freaky dancers who penned me in, determined to get lost in my hair or stroke my face with their spinderly hands. I must retreat into the office and pray for October or frost or whatever will rid me of this menace.