Isn't the weather great?

A bit of sunshine and all of female Ireland goes absolutely manic, like an anthill that got an unexpected kicking.

Lawnmowers are being beaten, screeching into life and bellowing to each other across back walls. There are multi-coloured looters in the garden centres. There are runs on Ladyshaves and strange wear on Hisself's good electric razor. Aul wans and young wans are digging through the wardrobes to find last year's skimpy teeshirts and slathering the Bisto onto milk white thighs. Old hounds that haven't stirred from contented kennels since last autumn are being hauled up roads and across parks by the neck. Sleepy aul lads and dopey young lads are gawking through bus windows at the strange Meccano set structures now visible through the clinging clothes of marching hoards of winter crazed stubbly womenfolk. The heat is savage. The air electric.

I'm staying out of it. Sure you'd be trampled!