A few months ago, I found myself sitting behind Little Miss Muffet on a Winnipeg Transit bus.
I knew it was her, because she was wearing a sleeveless summer shirt, sensible shoes, and a big, black spider on the back of her neck.
I looked a bit closer to make sure it wasn't a tattoo - it wasn't - and I weighed my options. Should I:
- Brush it off;
- Blow on it;
- Squish it with my hand;
- Hit it with something;
- Tell her;
- Wait and see;
- Do absolutely nothing?
"Excuse me, young lass," I said, "but there appears to be a spider on your neck."
She sprung into the middle of the aisle, jumped up and down, screamed "Jesus Christ!" and flung the poor bastard across the bus. He never knew what hit him.
She dropped back onto her tuffet and hyperventilated.
I got off the bus, and as it pulled away, I whispered, "And she didn't even get a chance to thank me."