I always thought it a terrible cruelty that in airports a glass wall separates those arriving and those leaving the country. On the way to the departure gate you can watch the miserable procession of those who have just returned from their holidays, some still wearing the flowery shorts and shades they had worn by the pool earlier that day. The kids are tired and difficult, and the parents can only think about heading back to work.
You, on the other hand, are buzzed up and happy, looking forward to losing the jeans and raincoat in a matter of hours.
The anticipation is almost as good as the holiday itself. On the way back, airport authorities force you to walk off your aircraft and past the smugness on the other side. I always look away; it is too much to bear.
It is difficult when good things end. And if, like me, you tend to see a cloud in every silver lining, it is a deadly time of the year. The negative lurks around every corner as summer turns to autumn and winter’s relentless march is everywhere to be seen. Everything is starting to die.
I used to blame Marty Whelan when he did the back-to-school ads for Tesco, but it’s not entirely his fault. It starts at the end of July and surges right through August and into September like an unstoppable force. Before you know it, summer is gone and all we have to look forward to is, well, next summer.
The first time I felt the cloud of autumn hang over me was in the garden the other day. The grass under the trampoline, where the lawnmower can’t reach, wasn’t that long and I realised I hadn’t mowed the lawn in about two weeks. Proceedings in the growth department were beginning to slow, despite the rain. I wondered how many more cuts the grass would need before we could leave the garden to the winter. I’ll probably be cutting it well into September, but that the thought crossed my mind meant that summer was hurtling towards the end of days.
A Barnardos survey outlining the depressing costs of returning the children to Ireland’s “freemium” education system sparked the current downward trajectory of my outlook and mood. It costs hundreds of euro to send an average child to school. And mine are above average.
At the time of writing I haven’t even taken my annual two-week summer holiday, and yet trying to find a pair of shorts in a shop is next to impossible. It’s grey school uniform trousers and protractors as far as the eye can see. The shops have moved on and I’m still dreaming and planning.
Far-flung places
People at work are returning from far-flung places – the US, Croatia, Donegal and Italy, to name a few. They are done with the summer and are refreshed with new ideas, plans for improvements, strategies and six-month plans. Give me strength. Some of them are already winding down for Christmas, and indeed why not? There are only 130 or so days until December 25th.
On the airwaves it's all autumn schedules. The Late Late Show and Later . . . with Jools Holland will be back before you know it, and the Dublin Horse Show Puissance has been on the telly already, the Rose of Tralee too and the kids will be gently complaining about going back to school (not because they don't like school, but because they feel they should complain about summer being over) and the grand stretch has already become a navy-blue sky by 9pm.
Then there’s the weather itself. It has been a couple of degrees lower lately, and extended periods of rain have merged to deliver yet another disappointing summer, even though scientists have told us over and over again that we indeed live in a relatively cold, damp island.
Aren’t we lucky that we don’t have heatwaves and earthquakes like they do “out foreign”, as my late grandmother would point out? She was right, but it feels miserable, doesn’t it?
I was eyeing up the stove the other night. I had cleaned it out and wiped it clean when we had a week of sunshine in May. We’ve been using it variously as a coat hanger, a table, a book shelf and a seat ever since. Now I find myself wandering around the garden, examining random pieces of wood and wondering if I should chop them up for burning.
Some people confess that it is not death itself that they fear, rather dying and the journey towards the inevitable. Like this, I look forward to winter, the dark and cold and the comfort of all that. The night starting at 4pm; rain and wind battering the house; the dog curled up on “his” couch for days on end in front of the fire and the prospect of ice and snow is alluring. It is the in-between bit that causes me angst. Twitter @paddylogue Michael Harding is on leave