I was rinsing out a few cups in work today when I spotted our pet spider getting drowned in the soapy water. Hurriedly I gathered him up to safety and do you know what? The bastard bit me! In panic I hurled Spidey to the floor and inspected my savaged finger. It was sort of itchy and scratchy and sore. I wondered (briefly) if it was a poisonous spider but sensibly decided that it was not. After all have you ever heard of a poisonous spider in Ireland? I kept an eye on my wound but it did not swell up or turn black which I took to be a good sign.
And what of Spiro the Spider? I scooped him up in a plastic glass and laid him on a tea towel to dry out. When I checked later he had scuttled off.
To take my mind off the arachnoid assault I watched live coverage of the events at Stormont. Tony looked smug and happy. Bertie looked sleekit and happy. Ian looked stern and happy. Martin looked grim and happy. And Gerry looked shifty. But I don't think he can help that.
And in the parlance of Ulster-Scots I noticed there was a quare ween o' they wee dafties aboot the place.