Beautiful butterfly in the mother's garden was as fake as those bankers
The blue butterfly with the black edges on the tips of his six-inch wings fluttered and buffeted in the freshening breeze. He never strayed more than a metre from the alabaster flowerpot in the mother's garden. You fool, you brave, foolish fool, I said to him. Why don't you escape to a sheltered spot? Under a hedge, or behind a bramble.
Into the iPhone I went, and I found him. In a week when this paper has delivered more scoops than an ice-cream parlour in a heatwave, I had the biggest scoop of them all. The butterfly was as exotic as a bunga-bunga dancer at a feis ceoil. I don't even know if he was a he. A butterfly's penis is as hard to find as humility in the world of high finance.
The winged wonder was a Blue Morpho. The first Blue Morpho ever to live in Ireland in the wild or maybe even in the tame.