Autumn is the season of cobwebs, or so it seems in my garden. There are cobwebs everywhere. I can’t get into my shed without brushing long strands out of the way. Just outside my bedroom window there is one stretched out, intricately woven, finer than silk, strong as steel. In the centre sits the spider, motionless, waiting for his supper. The web is so close into the lee of the window that if I dared open it, I’m sure the spider would see his chance and crawl into the warm. And then there is another web hanging from my washing line, a couple of metres away. After a dull drizzly day, and out of the protection of the house, this web is sprinkled with tiny raindrops. It is being buffeted by the wind, billowing like an elastic sail, swinging back and forth. The spider desperately clings to the centre where the strands meet, but he won’t leave his predatory post while there is still a chance of a meal arriving. Amazingly, despite the wind, the web is still complete, anything less strong would have been torn to shreds already. I wonder if it will still be there in the morning.