I am not exactly frightened of spiders, but I am no fan.

I respect their right to live but just wish it was as far away from me as possible. And this one was sitting on the bedroom ceiling.

My wife Maria was in bed with a book when she spotted him. And, to be honest, he was not hard to spot. He was huge as a fist with muscled legs that would not look out of place on the front row of Huddersfield Giants.

“We can’t go to sleep with him up there,” she said. “If he fell in your mouth, you would choke.”

I have an aversion to killing any kind of creature, which is just as well. He was big enough to fight back. So I used an old ploy. I gave him a burst of hair conditioner that caused him to drop to the floor and got him in a glass covered with a beer mat.

Even then it was a struggle as I carried him downstairs.

He was fighting fit and looking for a way out. If I misjudged my grip, he could escape and give me a sound thrashing.

“I’ll open the front door for you,” said Maria.

Which is why, at round about 11pm, our front door briefly opened to reveal a lady in a black shorty nightie and a chap in his underpants and T-shirt, looking fraught and anxious, as the spider was hurled outside.

I waited but he didn’t ring the bell to come back in.

Of course, there’s always the plughole in the bath.

I must remember to check that each morning before my shower, just in case he’s returned.

With his mates.