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A few nights ago, while over at The Girl’s place, there was some urgent rapping at the door.

It was rather late, and since hers is the only apartment that faces the street without the added buffer of the gate that the rest of us have, our first reaction was a wee bit of alarm.

Before we could scream or react, we heard: “Sorry, it’s me, The Voice!” (No, of course he doesn’t refer to himself as The Voice, but with that amazing voice of his, he really ought to. So I shall take the liberty of calling him that from now on.)

We opened up, only to see him standing there, as white as a sheet and trembling. “I’m SO sorry to disturb,” he said, “But... oh, geez, this is embarrassing… There’s a spider in my room. But it’s HUGE and it’s right above my bed. I need your help! Please?”

The Voice was pleading! With us!  However there was no need for further explanation. We understood. Oh, how well we understood!

After establishing that I was the only person who owned a suitable weapon – no, NOT ten-inch stiletto’s (I am clumsy enough on my bare feet), but insect/arachnid spray very appropriately called “DOOM!” – we went in. Or rather, The Girl and I did. Okay, The Girl did. Because one glance at that monstrous thing – it was SO huge, every individual hair on its loathsome legs and hideous body was visible from the doorway; in fact, I am rather sure that it could probably be seen from the International Space Station – The Voice and I stood at a safe distance, outside the door, giggling hysterically and jumping from one foot to the other.

But really, the main reason why I acted like a complete sissy and didn’t go in there, was because of my other fear. Of heights. Because The Voice’s bed is located on a loft, and the only way one can get up there is by scaling a ladder. And the spider was up there, just below the ceiling above his bed. So since The Girl isn’t afraid of heights but I am, and since she is afraid of spiders and I am too, she had no choice but to assume the nasty business of launching The Attack.

So, DOOM! in hand, she began climbing the ladder, steadily advancing towards the enemy.

In the mean time, The Voice and I offered helpful advice from our safe vantage point outside the door. Like thusly: “You know, when you spray it the first time? You are REALLY going to make it angry. Like, REALLY AAAANGRRRRY.”

 Somehow she didn’t appear to appreciate our input.

PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

I swear she emptied the can on that first spray.

And ooooh, were we ever right, The Voice and I! Remember? Earlier? When we so helpfully advised her?

 Because that spider was FURIOUS. All its legs sprang into motion at once. Those hairy black legs viciously struck the air in an attempt to ward off this toxic white powdery rain enveloping its entire body.

The now-completely-snow-white spider sprinted up towards the ceiling. We waited with baited breaths to see if it would suddenly succumb to the fumes and promptly die, but if anything, it was filled with renewed energy! And if that wasn’t heart-attack inducing enough for us, Spidey was scurrying across that ceiling - heading straight in our direction!!

The Voice nervously clutched his chest and hyper-ventilated. “Ohnoohnoohnoohnopleaseno…” he whimpered and hid behind me.

Meanwhile, The Girl had managed to miraculously squeeze out more DOOM! from the near-empty can. She was hanging from the ladder, spraying wildly at the spider still rushing across the ceiling. Suddenly, we noticed progress: Less and less of its legs began to touch the ceiling… until it dropped onto the floor. The Voice had propelled himself into my arms (okay, not really! But for a split second, he appeared poised to do just that) before Spidey had even made its graceless touchdown. But The Girl was ready. She sprayed and sprayed. She wasn’t going to wait and see if its violent plunge onto the tile floor was enough to finally kill it. Prevention being better than running away and all that.

Good foresight on her part. Because the fall didn’t end the spider’s seemingly endless collection of lives! Of course it didn’t!

After each spraying session, we held our collective breaths, hoping that the bloody spider would at last do the same – forever. Only for it to spring to life again with renewed vigour and fury, making all of us jump six metres into the air. It was like a scene from one of those thrillers in which the murderous villain had just been stabbed by the formerly helpless and so stupid that she walked alone through the deserted alley on her high heels and in her tight short skirt while all of us watching were screaming at her not to be so STUPID  because she knew full well that she had been stalked for weeks by this homicidal maniac but nooo of course she was going to walk alone at night and be all vulnerable and get home and undress in front of the open window and get in the shower with the front door still unlocked. Where was I? Oh, so yes, then, after the villain gets in and almost kills her in the shower, she suddenly turns heroic and stabs the bastard and just as she throws down the knife (within easy reach of his hands of course), she walks closer to investigate and his fingers twitch and then he reaches out with his bloody hand and GRABS her ankle with strength extremely unbefitting of a dying man! In pretty much the same way we were expecting the spider to do the same at any moment. That it would pretend to be dead, only for one of its many legs to shoot out and grab us by our trembling limbs.

So The Girl sprayed and sprayed… until the can was truly empty.

And that spider was still VERY MUCH ALIVE and crawling at great speed towards us. (Of course, I still maintain that all those legs gave it an unfair advantage over those of us who merely have two legs.) Suddenly, The Voice could take it no more. I think he temporarily lost his mind. Because in an amazing display of masculine agility, he jumped from outside his bedroom, OVER the spider, and landed right in front of his chest of drawers in the far corner of his room. Without ONCE touching the ground. He grabbed two things: a can of deodorant and a lighter.

“I’m gonna set this sucker on fire,” he said. The Girl and I stared at him, mouths agape with awe and wonder.

Axe effect people? Do I have a brilliant idea for your next ad! It’s all based on the truth, you see. Because the next minute, The Voice doused Spidey with his Axe deodorant. And then he flicked the lighter…

I could already envision the headlines: Talented Students And Their Strange, Elderly Neighbour Die In Freak Yet Pleasant Smelling Explosion. Spider Is Sole Survivor.

The wet trail of deodorant instantly caught fire across the tile floor and went WOOOOOOSH as it reached the spider.

Still, the spider DID NOT DIE! The only thing the fire seemed to have done to it was 1) Make it even angrier 2) More determined to live and fight, and 3) Blacker than it was before.

Luckily The Voice did not give up either. His fear had truly made him demented. And crazy people, for better or for worse, seem to be completely unafraid. He sprayed and flicked the lighter. Sprayed and flicked… until the spider FINALLY went up in a cloud of smoke.

From now on, whenever I walk by his window at night, I can’t resist the urge to sing: “Incy Wincy Spiiiiiider…” in a spooky voice.

By the way, we have since established that The Voice and The Girl’s victim was one of these...

Next time I'll tell you what our new neighbour (Mr. Sport Science) is keeping as a pet!

It was a recent Saturday in July when I heard it for the first time.

The mid-afternoon, pale winter sun was slanting through the half-open wooden blinds covering my bedroom window. I was standing near it, the rays drawing stripes of light and shadow across my body. I was getting ready to go to a party, and at that instant, the top half of me was almost entirely enveloped by a vapour of perfume.

I once read that perfume should never be sprayed directly onto the skin, but instead, upwards into the air. Then you are supposed to walk through the cascading mist so that the aroma can subtly, seductively, cling to you. Of course, I always forget to do it like that, and usually end up heavy-handedly dousing my entire neck and both wrists, as I did that day as well.

I was flustered, rushing to get ready before my ride to the party would arrive, yet also somewhat distracted by the show playing on the radio. The programme diverting my attention from being fully absorbed in the act of applying my mascara was Weekend Edition on NPR. National Public Radio, my favourite American talk radio station, which I’m still utterly amazed and thrilled to hear all the way on the other side of the world, thanks to the miracle of modern satellite radio.

Suddenly, I heard a gorgeous, male voice launching into an aria. Now, NPR is definitely what one could call a 'cultured' station. It caters to a diverse, discerning audience, and although the programme line-up mostly consists of talk shows and news, there are regular music shows too, devoted to an array of musical styles which includes jazz, blues and classical. But in that particular segment of the show I was listening to at that moment, the interviewer was chatting to an author about his upcoming novel. There was no music playing – not even in the background – but just to be certain, I muted the radio anyway. And sure enough, the rich baritone timbre still sounded. Until it abruptly stopped.

I waited in silent anticipation, hoping that it would start again so that I could figure out where exactly it was coming from. But the only singers willing to keep performing were the birds enthusiastically chirping outside. Other than that, the immediate vicinity was completely quiet. After a few silent minutes had passed, I pressed the mute button again, and - just as I was getting engrossed in the still-ongoing author interview again - the singing resumed. I dove for the radio once more, muting it for a second time.

Prompting the singer to immediately stop again.

“You must’ve imagined it!” was the general consensus when I later told people at the party about the mysterious voice.

“A ghost!” A champagne-toting guest volunteered.

Luckily no one was cheeky enough to proffer the possibility that my particular strain of insanity now apparently included operatic voices in my head, solely present to serenade me. I began to consider the idea of a ghost. It was a rather romantic notion. Perhaps my former sweetheart – a talented tenor – was haunting me? After all, hearing his perpetual, cheerful singing throughout our shared Baltimore rowhouse is one of the things I still miss the most about him. So maybe he was the ghost? Of course, the only extremely large hole in that theory was the fact that he is still very much alive, kicking (although, not the bucket) and performing with an a cappella group in Washington, D.C.

Over the following days, I kept my radio’s volume turned down, hoping that the voice would come wafting through my window or walls again. To no avail. The prolonged silence made me wonder whether the whole thing hadn’t just been a figment of my imagination – as so many of the party goers had claimed. Or perhaps I had been tripping after inhaling all that perfume I had drenched myself with that afternoon?

About a week later, I ran into my landlady. “I’ve heard the most amazing voice…” I said.

“Oh, yes, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she replied. “The place next to yours isn’t vacant anymore. The new tenant is a student at the Conservatory.”

And just like that, the musical mystery was solved. Even though the shroud of secrecy had been lifted, I still wanted to hear him sing again.

One night, while I was watching television, he unwittingly answered my wish. This time, I waited a while before slowly turning down the sound on the TV. Since his bathroom window is situated right next to my bedroom window, I could tell that he was testing the acoustics in the shower. (Yes, I was really putting the ear in voyeur!)

Despite sharing a courtyard, our schedules are so different that we didn’t bump into each other for the longest time. I did see him, fleetingly, out of the corner of my eye once while standing out there, chatting to my landlady, but he literally sprinted by in a blur on his way to class.

And then, the Saturday before last, we finally met. I was on my way out, locking my door. It was a beautiful afternoon. He was sitting in his lounge, the windows flung wide open. When I closed the door, the sound drew his attention and he turned around. As I looked over, he gave a little wave and came to the door, where we finally shook hands and introduced ourselves.

After going through the preliminaries, I said: “I don’t mean to embarrass you,” (and as soon as I said that, I ended up doing precisely that, of course) "but I just have to tell you that you have the most AMAZING voice. Please sing often and louder!”

The poor guy immediately flushed crimson. “I’m so sorry…”

“No, seriously! Please! I lived with a tenor for years, and I miss it.”

He shyly brushed his fingers through his short, blonde hair. “I wasn’t sure how loudly I could practice,” he said. "So if you're sure..."

Ever since then, every night at around this time, he hops into his shower and works through some of his repertoire. When he does, I immediately mute my radio or TV, sit back, close my eyes, and enjoy the show.

Because these days, he doesn’t stop when he hears that everything has gone suspiciously quiet on my side of the wall!