The Finger of Death...

Wombat woke to the sun streaming through the window and landing on his face. "Humph... stupid sun..." He looked at the clock and thought...Oh.. fair enough... Mentally apologising to the sun. It was 12.30 pm after all. He stretched his paws out to their fullest extent and thought ...I suppose I'd better get up... Not one to rush things, Wombat finally dragged himself out of bed at 2.05 pm.

He lumbered down the stairs and - after eating a few chocolate bars to keep his energy levels up - Wombat decided he'd better do some gardening. Squinting at the clear sky as he opened the back door, Wombat had a bad feeling about all the physical exertion he was planning to do. It couldn't be good for him...

He grabbed the gardening gloves off the table and eased them onto his paws. (It's not easy for a wombat to find gardening gloves that fit on account of their paw shape.) One claw in, two, three, ... something was wrong with four... The claw didn't seem to go down as far at the others. Wombat pushed a little harder. He felt a slight 'pop' and something moved... Wombat pulled the glove off his paw as fast as he could and flung it down on the table. Out of the glove limped a large, black, furry spider... Wombat screamed his girly scream and watched the spider drag itself down into a crack in the table.

White faced, Wombat stared at the glove, then at the place where the spider had disappeared. It could have bitten him! He could have been lying dead right now - or at least in excruciating agony!!! (Assuming the spider was poisonous.) He stood there until his heartbeat returned to normal.

Shaking his head Wombat retreated back into the cosy warmth of his home, consoling himself with the fact that at least it hadn't been an ant. With spiders they come in ones or twos.. with ants they come in millions...