There’s this myth of Australians as backwoodsmen, people who forage for grubs in the outback, sleeping under the stars with nothing but a can of beer, some cool brand of cigarettes and a tin of wallaby stew. They are rugged, muscled, have deep furrows on their faces, their skin has become wizened, and they are tougher than crocodiles. This runs through to the way they play cricket and rugby, to the way they run global newspaper empires (apparently even chewing up much loved partners of rock and roll heroes when into their 80s), and to the stridency associated with their cultural icons.

It’s a load of rubbish. 90% of Australians live within a few miles of the coast and spend their time toning their tans on the beach while someone stokes the barbie, the kids pose and look cute, the beautiful ones go into the waves for 5 minutes before returning to the sanctuary of the beach towel, on which they lie in provocative positions (both sexes) geared to making their tummies look as flat as possible and their chests as well endowed, and generally taking up more space than they need.

Aah, this space thing. I’d never thought there would be so big a cultural difference between Brits and Aussies, but personal space is a big issue. Australians have absolutely no sense of curiosity about others, never ask us a question like ‘So why are you here for 3 months?’ Or ‘What will you do with all that time?’ Or ‘what do you do back home?’. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. And this complete disinterest carries through to the personal space they demand.

It’s as if you are not there. They either don’t see you, think you are of no consequence, or consider they are the only thing that matters. Actually, I don’t really believe that. Still, they expect you to give way. So I conducted a controlled experiment on my walk along the coast from Coogee to Bondi Beach (well, someone has to do it). I stood my ground, I dropped no shoulder, I deviated not an inch. And it was really weird – they melted away past me as if they were spirit children or apparitions. They even apologised to me.

So what do I learn from this? That they are soft. This whole shtick about the rugged aggressive survivor is a load of hokum. I know how to get my way. Stand my ground.

Now, the problem is, this macho position doesn’t work with arachnids. The other night, we came in, dossed around, flicked through some guide books when from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed something rather large and hairy. It must be the wine, I thought. Then the Travelling Companion shrieked – no, screamed – and there, by the skirting board was a spider the size of a black rabbit, only with more legs. It was the hugest, ugliest, meanest thing I have ever seen. (It had legs so long I can only believe Rupert Murdoch has taken up with Jerry Hall because as a boy he was fascinated by these things.) One of us leaped up on to a kitchen chair, shrieking ‘What the hell is THAT!’, whilst the other found the Murder Spray with which all good Australian homes are equipped . One of us inched forward and gave The Thing a tentative spray, whereupon it started running over the wall as fast (and as large) as Usain Bolt, along the sofa, across the work tops and was briefly threatening the Chair whereupon the other started yelling ‘Kill it! Kill it! Please, just KILL IT!’. Then, as quickly, ‘No! No! Is that spray environmentally friendly?’ WHAT? You mean you want it to die an eco death?’ The spray won, the spider curled up and ran off out of the house as fast as its big long hairy legs could carry it.

Worried about the prospects of its return with reinforcements, we went next door to G, our landlady, who helpfully gave us a map of all the spiders we might expect to see, marked in 3 categories: ‘Mostly Harmless’, ‘Mildly Offensive’ and ‘Instant Death’. Ours was the fabulously named Great Australian Huntsman. Neither of us dared to ask exactly what it goes around hunting. G listened intently and caringly, but as she turned to go I noticed a slightly smug smile sitting gently on her face. We found the Lonely Planet section headed ‘20 Ways to Die in Australia’, and it says ‘The Huntsman is perhaps the biggest spider known to man. It is completely harmless, except for the fact that more people have died of cardiac arrest from merely seeing it, than all forms of spider bites and attacks put together’. More or less.

Upstairs we have one bedroom, with open tread stairs from our living area – no doors. As we trod our tired, shaken and wary way up to bed after a torrid time, what should be waiting for us by our bed than…. Yup, you guessed. The same Man Hunts Spider Hunting Man war of attrition, legs and spray all over again, albeit this time with slightly more confidence the tale could be retold by the humans. Then, finally it was over. Reader, would you have swapped that night’s sleep with us?

So there’s a moral to this shaggy spider tale. I think. And that is, if you’re walking along a pavement, and a big hairy Australian thing comes in the opposite direction – don’t ask questions. Let it go first. Just hope it’s ‘Mostly Harmless’.