By Laura Hutchinson
IT’S been a very frustrating week for me. I’m an impatient, intolerant person at the best of times, but it seems that, lately, I’ve been wanting to stab people more than usual. Like when you’re working your ass off and other people are standing in the corner yapping away to each other, and then, when they see the look of thunder on your face, they assume you’re just moody and come over to tell you to cheer up. That’s a stabbing. Or when you go into a pharmacy to get a prescription and you have to tell the girl three times what you want because she keeps talking over you. Then she asks you again. Yeah, that’s a stabbing.
But the number one thing affecting my mood recently is the weather. Or, more precisely, talk of the weather. If one more person moans about how we haven’t had a decent summer, I’ll be forced to throttle them with a heavy object. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’ve been able to walk around in jeans and a top quite comfortably since about March. The most I’ve needed is a cardigan.
In fact, it’s only in the last three or four weeks that I’ve even started to contemplate bringing a jacket with me.
And I can tell you now, I’m a cold-blooded creature. I normally spend my life in a constant state of hypothermia, owing to bad circulation. So if I’ve been managing quite well the last few months, what’s been wrong with the rest of you? OK, it hasn’t exactly been a heat wave, but if that’s what you’re after, your best bet is the south of France. Let’s face it, when people are looking for a summer holiday, Ireland isn’t exactly the first place to spring to mind. It’s not the weather’s fault your expectations are so high.
I suspect that the reason most of you are cursing your lack of sunburn is because you feel hard done by after last winter. You thought Mother Nature owed us a tropical three months. If that’s the case, you might want to start packing your bags quite soon, ’cause it’s about to get a whole lot worse.
Personally, I’m absolutely dreading the onslaught of the snow. The very word sends shivers up my spine. Snow is the kind of thing that’s great when you live out the country and you’ve nowhere to go and you’ve an endless supply of food and firewood. And, if films have taught me anything, when there are no serial killers on the prowl. Once you’re forced to step outside the door for, oh I dunno, work or something like that, it becomes a different story altogether. Buses don’t run, the roads are treacherous, and getting anywhere on foot is impossible unless you happen to have a pair of ice skates cleverly tucked away in your handbag. (Judging by the size of some of them I’ve seen people carrying, I wouldn’t be surprised.)
So this year, I figure I’ve only got two options: I’m either going to have to go into hibernation or I’m going to have to move to warmer climes, only returning from either in late March. Admittedly, that’s more to escape people whinging about the cold than actually escaping the cold itself. There’s nothing worse than being stuck in a blizzard and some clever clogs commenting on how cold it is. Cold? Really? I hadn’t noticed. It’s just a coincidence that I’m wearing a hat, gloves, scarf, four layers of heavy clothes, a waterproof jacket, two pairs of socks and fur-lined wellies. They were the only clean clothes I had, like, seen as all my bikinis and shorts are in the wash.
If I’m forced to stay, I’ll have to start travelling everywhere with a sheet of paper in my pocket. That way, the next person who annoys me will be inflicted with multiple paper cuts. And the incidents of stabbing will increase tenfold. Let this be a warning to you all.