I live in an area of Brighton which is almost like a village.

It has every amenity you could possibly want such as a bank, pub, greengrocer's, chemist's, post office - and a shop selling tarantulas.

Yes, that's right tarantulas, as in big (very big) hairy spiders. Even the word gives me the shudders yet until last week I had no idea they were there, just a five minutes scuttle from my home.

Then a friend mentioned that she'd got some bark for a tropical fern she's nurturing. "I bought it in the shop that sells tarantulas," she said in a matter-of-fact, there's-nothing-odd-about-that sort of voice.

I thought she was having me on, as friends do when they feel like having a little laugh at your expense.

I mean telling someone who cringes at the sight of a daddy longlegs that they have tarantulas for neighbours is like telling a goldfish you're going to put it in a tank of piranhas -- but not to worry.

But the friend wasn't kidding. "You must know the place," she insisted.

"It's just past the fish and chip shop before you get to the estate agents."

I did indeed know the place. The last time I'd been in it had been an old-fashioned cobbler's shop, then it became a delicatessen's selling exotic cheeses and pates. Now it was trading in exotic spiders - plus it turned out, snakes, frogs and lizards.

"Why are they selling tarantulas?" asked The Mother.

"People keep them as pets," the friend told her.

At the weekend The Mother and I went for a walk. Our route took us past the tarantula shop, only it wasn't called that of course. No, according to the sign over the door it was a herpetological supplier, which means a sort of reptile emporium I suppose.

In the window was a list of the creatures you could buy ranging from frilled dragon lizards at £175 and boa constrictors at £100 to an Argentinean horned frog at just under £20.

Then there were the tarantulas. How pretty they sounded . . . a cobalt blue tarantula at £19.99, a Mexican red knee at £49.99 and a tiger rump doppelganger at £54.99. Just imagine finding those in your Christmas stocking.

Actually, I did imagine such a scenario and nervously pulled The Mother's arm. "Come on, we're supposed to be going to the garden centre," I said.

Unfortunately the door of the tarantula store was open and The Mother, always curious, ignored orders and went inside.

She's a friendly sort, The Mother. Seconds later I heard her chatting and making "Ooh" and "Ah" sounds. I knew what would follow shortly -- and it did.

"Vanora -- come in and look at this," she said.

I knew what she wanted me to look at and I very definitely didn't want to go into the shop. But I did.

The tarantula, which didn't look blue, didn't appear to have red knees or a stripy backside but was BIG, was hiding out under a piece of bark in a sort of cage. It appeared as unwilling to look at me as I was to look at it. I didn't hang around.

Outside the shop I turned to The Mother. "Well, fancy that as a pet?" I asked.

"I think I'll stick to dogs," she replied.