Today I killed the huntsman spider that took up residence in my bathroom when the cold weather started to set in.
So, with guilt settling in the pit of my stomach, I grabbed the Mortien tin and a roll of paper towel, and went to murder Alan.
He must have been so confused! I'd never shown any signs of aggression towards him before. He just hung out in the corner while I took a shower, explored the light bulb while I brushed my teeth, perched on top of the shower rail while I ... well, we don't need to go into all the finer details of what I do in the bathroom, do we?
Probably as far as he was concerned, we were happily cohabitating. The feline flatmate wasn't giving him grief, I wasn't forcing him back into the cold, wintery outdoors, I'm sure he thought life was good! That we were tight!
Then I come in with a tin of bug spray and a bad attitude, and the next thing he knows his life is being cut short by a psychotic woman who just seemed to snap out of the blue.
I'm sorry, Alan. I didn't want to kill you, but I just couldn't take it any more. The fear of you running up my leg while I was in the shower was just too great.