on winds of destiny

Evening at the Chateau de Healy.
Ireland's greatest living poet is posited on an armchair quaffing a coffee.
A hamster called MC Jomo Hamyata is on his knee, making valiant forays in the direction of her master's apple slice.
She knows that in accordance with the ancient law, if she manages to put a little hamster hand on it, she's liable to get the whole thing.
Paddy Pup is flumped at the fireside contemplating his paws.
He doesn't like apple slices.
Although a hamster would go down a treat.
Still, as sheepdog in chief, he is content. As are the rest of us.
All is right with the world.
Enter the Mammy.
She hunts her son over to the couch and takes possession of the armchair.
There she reclines flicking absently through the television channels.
"That guy landing the plane on the river was something else," she murmurs by way of conversation.
"He was," sez I.
"You know it might be an omen," sez she.
"An omen for what?" sez I.
"An omen for Barack," sez she.
"What do you mean?" sez I.
The Mammy ceased flicking for a moment.
"Well I don't mean this in a bad way," quoth she. "But if your guy had been in power the plane would have gone down with the loss of all on board."
I stared.
"Ah Lil," sez me.
"I'm just saying it might be an omen," persisted the Mammy. "Maybe it means Barack is going to be lucky."
My handsome preraphaelite features went a bit gothic.
"Et tu Lily," sez I. "Then falls Heelers."