THE ONLY THING worse than having to put up with bad weather, is listening to people moan about it. All day. Every day. On and on and on. It's the opener that spills from people's lips, it marks a moment of connection between two strangers on the street as they try not to poke each other's eyes out with umbrellas. Enough! declares Daisy Cummins
I'm all for a bit of light, frisky, weather chat when it serves to bridge that awkward gap between silences. Say if you're stranded in a lift, or mid-contractions in the throes of labour before the epidural kicks in. Talking about weather does what it says on the tin (so does an epidural, I believe). It provides a subject innocuous enough not to offend and can gently let two or more people indulge in a mild mutual rant. For who is ever not in agreement about the weather?
It's either mild, which is great, isn't it? For getting out and getting things done such as the drying. Not too hot, not too cold, the perfect medium. Or it's either cold and miserable, which is awful isn't it? Giving us connection through misery and pain. Or it's the sun splitting the stones, which is marvellous isn't it? Allowing us to be duped into the somewhat erroneous national belief that this is normal, expected, usual.
Well it's not. And it's high time we built a bridge and got over it. In case it has escaped our national attention, our lassitude, sorry, latitude, on the world's globe is rather far north of the equator. That's why we don't have jungles and rainforests with warring tribes (although that one is debatable), and monkeys swinging through trees in our gardens.
I had to listen to one friend recently who lamented ad nauseum the fact that we couldn't have a more al fresco lifestyle. I felt like taking him by the hand, bringing him to Holles Street, or wherever he was born, pointing to it and saying gently in my best Mr Chips voice: "You were born in Ireland. It's a country renowned for being green, and do you know why it's green? Because it rains. A lot."
People talk about the summer of 1995, or even the summer of 1996, like they were battle campaigns where we stuck up our two fingers to the rain for months on end and jeered in the face of clement weather for it to break and do its worst. These are called the fluke years.
The handful of Yanks and other tourists who have visited this year love going into raptures about how lush it is here. Now we wouldn't want to deny them that would we? And it serves a purpose: distracting them from the filth infested Liffey, rubbish strewn centre of Dublin, and the Grand Canal which is growing a veritable crust, even the swans look grubby and morose.
I advise that you see the contrary Irish weather as a chance to give your kids rich memories of long, painful, character-building drives down to the west of Ireland, with the rain lashing on the windscreen, joyfully singing off-key songs, trying valiantly to fight the mood swings that descend with the clouds. Only the Irish can adopt that determined air: "We'll sit on that beach and enjoy it if it kills us. The monsoon rains won't stand in our way."
I mean, let's face it, with the bottom falling out of the construction industry, it's not as if many people have to brave the weather, is it? Mind you, I'm sure it doesn't stop the missionaries from their annual stint on the strand in Ballybunion. Many's the day I was turfed down there to sit with insanely smiling young adults dressed in red jumpers, behind a windbreaker which invariably blew away, much to our irreverent hilarity. See? Weather created that memory.
No doubt the sun will be splitting the stones for the first time in ages as you read this, just to be contrary. You may chuckle ironically to your heart's content and go really mad and plan a barbecue for this evening, ignoring the fact that your garden is sodden and your decking is warped. Just remember, there's another spate of showers just around the corner and (might as well go for it) a bank of grey clouds hovering nearby with their friends, Recession and Global Warming. Embrace these immutable truths and avoid the urge to moan.