Ah, go on...

... the Irish summer, you know you want to give it a go!

For my first six years in Ireland, I really couldn't give a bat's dropping whether we'd "finally get a summer" or not.
I couldn't quite understand the obsession for all things weather related.

Then on my 7th summer - or lack thereof - the craving for sunlight kicked in with a vengeance.
Overnight I had turned into a sun worshipper. Devoting myself totally to a very elusive god.
My years of working for an airlines helped to get elsewhere the sun that was so cruelly lacking at home. But them days of flying off to Tobago in December to catch a few rays are over.

A few people in my entourage seem to be totally unaffected by the lack of sunshine characteristic of an Irish summer (three months on a calendar).
My brother, who is far more partial to an overcast grey day, much better for fly fishing for salmon on the lake.
My mate Carlos, who remembers only too well the pain of the sunburns of his childhood in Rio. And the time his nose split in two from being so badly burned.
And my childhood friend Christophe, who is so unequivocally in love with his life in Ireland that he would refuse to find even the remotest negative connection with his adoptive country.

And then there are all the others. Millions of sun starved people like me who throw caution to the wind on those rare days when the big yellow thing decides to do its thing. All happily getting roasted, in the deluded hope that "bah, it is a bit red today but it will be a tan tomorrow..."

All summer you cannot help but hope for the arrival of the summer but then the end of September arrives and you have no other choice but to acknowledge that it is well and truly fucked for yet another year.

The flip flops that have been worn three times go back in the cupboard, and you know from its hefty weight in your hand that you will get another four summers like the last one out of your Boots factor 15 sun cream bottle. And the rain lounger gets folded and packed away for another 11 and a half months.

At least, there are no false hope about the winter. You know that it is going to be wet and windy and shite.

And you start hoping that perhaps next year, we'll finally get a summer.



Summer, my unprotected fluffy arse.