Ferdia Foley
I was speaking to The Big Man the other day. ‘We’ll be talking about this Summer for a long time’, he said. ‘We will’, I replied, ‘surely, we will’. ‘And there are plenty of the usual type whinging and whining’, he said, ‘but once the rain returns, they’ll be sorry then – and I’ll tell you that for nothing!’ Thank God, I thought, because it wasn’t the kind of insightful information for which I’d happily pay.
I knew well which whiners he was speaking of, for I am often one amongst them. The type who can’t bask in the glory of another heatwave without the spectre of climate-anxiety looming over their sandcastles, bucket, and spade. How can I relax on grass so badly burnt that it will barely grow back in time to freeze over again in winter? Let alone while reading news reports in which practically every other European country is faring even worse.
‘Would you ever just give over?’, the Big Man bellowed, ‘Enjoy it while we have it! You’ll miss it when it’s gone’. It’ll be back next year, don’t worry – and possibly even hotter still. Honestly, I don’t think this actually IS a summer I’m very likely to remember. People still talk about the heatwaves in 1976 and 1995, but they’ve stuck in people’s memory because they were aberrations.
Full column in this week’s Print & Digital Edition.
