18.11.09 Antigua, Guatemala

As my left forearm metamorphoses from golden-haired willow sprig into fat, scarlet, insanely itchy rugby ball, I'm forced to hold back a spring tide of superstition. Superstition, as you know, is belief without evidence. Often reinforced by coincidence, it can sometimes take a Brain Of Steel to hold superstition at bay.

The bee, wasp or hornet that plugs my arm full of noisome agents during the ride back to Antigua is without doubt a barbarian and a maniac, but as I scream wordlessly at 70mph, reptile-brain assuming control of Her Ladyship, I think back one hour to the small, jade-green, harmless bug that was trapped behind my screen.
"Ignore it!" submitted Rationality.
"What if it becomes dislodged, and flies up your nostril?" argued the Fear Centres of my mind. "What if, following a sharp gust, it becomes embedded in your eye-socket, and is forced to nourish itself on the sensitive pink meat of your optic nerve?"
That last one does it for me. I attempt (at well over 60mph) to flick my emerald passenger off the screen. I'm wearing gloves - it doesn't go at all well, and there's smearing and death.
Sorry, sorry, sorry, I think, shuddering at the senseless waste of life while attempting to retain control of my vehicle.

An hour later - a little early for Karma, don'cha think - it's hornet time. 60 hours of horrible pain interspersed with spastic scratching follow. I'm certain it's a coincidence. Completely 98.5% certain.
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This is hilarious in Omagh! Although even then you might have to be called Gormley, Conlon or Crowley to get it. Ha ha!
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