Ladybugs fascinate me. They symbolise a part of my childhood: running barefoot through fields of tall green grasses and scaling greedily up scabrous-bark clad trees before performing pirouettes on their crawling branches. I once fell on my head, and with the effusion of blood ebbed my passion for acrobatic fancies. I confined myself to terrestrial matters. And thus I foraged the grasses, partly disgusted and mostly terrified by the creeping beasts that inhabited these; but the ladybug delighted me.
To my surprise, while trying to find my way out of Lagan Meadows, which ultimately funnelled me into Belvoir Park Forest, I chanced upon a pair of mating ladybugs. It was a delightful discovery, mitigating the unsavoriness of having earlier bumped into my arch-nemeses — Catalan nationalists.