We would not find the gloomy among us quite so annoying if we had the sun on our backs more often, writes DAVID ADAMS
I WASN’T meant for this part of the world, and neither, I suspect, were a goodly number of my fellow citizens. We should have been born into sunnier climes. As proof, consider the demeanour of those you met on the street, during the recent blink of sunshine: their smiling faces, lightness of step, and eagerness to pass the time of day with anyone who catches the eye.
Then consider that the vast majority of the same people usually wouldn’t give you a kind look, walking about with their faces tripping them. The only explanation for this outbreak of abnormally good humour was a clear blue sky overhead with a big yellow orb shining out of it.
I firmly believe we are a morose lot (except with alcohol taken, which doesn’t count) only because we don’t get enough sunshine.
If we had better weather – or even predictable seasons, like nearly everybody else in the world – we would be happier altogether.
There are of course a very tiny minority of souls who remain doggedly cheerful regardless of rain, hail or snow. But they only add to my theory. I doubt we would find them quite so annoying if we had the sun on our backs more often. In fact, I doubt we’d even notice them in the crowd.
No, this grey part of the world deserves to be populated only by the kind of people who remain ill-humoured no matter how good the weather is.
This was the type of deep, philosophical musing that was occupying my mind as I wandered from the back garden to the kitchen last Saturday, in search of another glass of lemonade. Liam, the grandson, was happily splashing about in the paddling pool, and the rest of the family were sprawled on the grass, admiring him. Life doesn’t get much better than this, I thought: borrowing that (usually cringe-inducing) phrase so beloved of second-rate celebrities.
I flicked through the TV channels and caught Gerry Adams addressing the Sinn Féin Ardfheis. He was claiming partition had created two “conservative” states in Ireland, and that more and more people in the South, “realise we do not have a real republic”. No reasonable person could disagree with him, I thought, particularly in this weather.
I wandered back outside, to take charge of the barbecue. I normally detest barbecues, having spent too many long evenings shivering in back gardens, trying to look as though I’m enjoying myself, with one hand frozen to a can of beer and the other to a half-eaten burger. We don’t have the weather for barbecues, but insist upon pretending that we do.
Last Saturday was different. Soon the blue, oil-smelling smoke was rising, sausages were sizzling, and Joan Armatrading was warbling from the CD player: “I’m not the kind of person, who falls in and quickly out of love.” A quick nod and a smile to a passing neighbour that I usually can’t stand the sight of, warnings issued to everybody about keeping Liam away from the barbecue, and I adjourn to the kitchen for another lemonade.
I don’t drink anymore, but on days like Saturday I wouldn’t be hard to coax. If you’re going to have a drink, there’s no better place to do it than outside in the blazing sun, watching the world go by. Start off on pints of Guinness, and after a short while fall back on something lighter, like white wine. The downside is you’re drunk for about three hours before you realise it, and end up burned to a crisp, and that’s aside from all the other problems that come with alcohol.
The notion for a drink leaves me as quickly as it came on. Gerry’s on TV again, in a news report on the ardfheis: “Sinn Féin wants to demonstrate to unionists that a united Ireland is also in their interests. A united Ireland makes sense.” Even my unionist heart flutters a little, imagining his “Agreed Ireland”. If this weather keeps up, unionists could soon be queuing up to demand an end to partition.
When I get back to the garden, Liam is wrestling with a hot dog, his face plastered in tomato sauce: “C’mon see this, Granda,” he says, motioning me over to the paddling pool, to show me Sheldon and Napoleon, his uncle’s two turtles, basking contentedly on the surface of the water. “Yes,” I say, “the sun is good for their shells.” “Why,” he asks, and we launch into another round of the open-ended “why” game.
I always run out of answers before he tires of seeking explanations. Perhaps it’s a preparation for life. Later, there’s another news item on TV, this time Gerry is telling his shirt-sleeved, sweltering audience: “It is a good and patriotic and positive action to say No to a treaty that is bad for you, bad for your family and community, bad for society and entirely without any social or economic merit. Next Thursday, vote No.”
He had better hope that by today the weather will be back to its usual dismal self. As no doubt I soon will be.