I don't seriously blame them for it, except on some subconscious, irrational level. But it has to be said that the weather has deteriorated disastrously since the Greens went into government. The promise of a long, hot summer - so persuasive only a few weeks ago - has suddenly vanished, as so many promises from election campaigns seem to do, writes Frank McNally.
I accept that a guarantee of blue skies and balmy temperatures did not feature in any party manifesto. And yet all those sunny faces on posters during the hazy days of May seem, in retrospect, complicit. No sooner was a Government elected and the posters removed than it emerged that the weather was in for a serious downturn, with the Met Office issuing grim new figures, seasonally adjusted.
Rain can be a good thing, I know, and not just for farmers. One undisputed benefit of a wet summer is that it keeps the streets of Dublin clean - something the municipal authorities, apparently hamstrung by their fierce commitment to the environment, and the conservation of water in particular, cannot otherwise do.
During any dry spell, however short, the city becomes an embarrassment to live in. The detritus of hard nights is visible everywhere on streets and footpaths, in dribbles and spillages and bodily effluvia. The bottoms of rubbish bins ooze like sores until the sun forms scabs around them. It's a small mercy when the colours on the footpaths merge and fade, and you can no longer tell which leaks are which.
Even so, when you see tourists tip-toeing through the squalor sometimes, it can be hard not to squirm.
A lesser body than Dublin City Council might panic on such occasions and order wholesale street-washing of the kind that occurs daily in Paris. Not the hardened eco-warriors of City Hall, however. Like so many of Dublin's shopkeepers - who, if weak-minded, might be tempted to clean their own stretches of pavement and shame the neighbours - they hold their nerve. They know the rain is coming, sooner or later.
If only the rest of us could remember this vital information. Unfortunately it is part of the Irish condition to be eternally optimistic about the climate, given any encouragement. A few days without rain is always enough to convince us that this is the new norm. Which is why we have never quite learned to dress for the conditions we live in.
I'll speak for myself anyway. One evening this week, I cycled into the office for something, having made a quick assessment that I could get there and back without waterproof clothing (not that I own any). There were specks of rain on the breeze, it's true. But a sniff of the air, informed by that deep well of intuition about the natural world that all Irish people inherit from our ancestors, assured me it would stay dry.
Half-an-hour later, I stood staring out the office window as an Atlantic depression deepened over Dublin, dumping biblical quantities of rain on to the streets below, where not even Green Party ministers could be seen cycling home. There was nothing for it, I realised, but to abandon the bike for the night and get the Luas instead.
A slight weakness in this plan was that, naturally, I had no umbrella. And by the time I was half-way to the Luas stop, it was clear that my tactic of dashing between doorways and covered shop fronts was only partly successful. What you avoided in first-hand rain you absorbed in the torrents of second-hand stuff gushing from canopies and gutters. So having reached the River Liffey - which was still just about distinguishable from the streets - I opted to cut my losses and get a bus.
It had been a while since I did this. But it soon came back to me forcefully how waiting for a bus on a wet evening in Dublin can sap your will to live. When you're sodden, and huddled in a shop entrance, and having your space invaded back and front by wet strangers and an automatic door, the charm of watching the world go by wears very quickly.
In the entrance I chose, smoke from my neighbour's cigarette lingered around me, apparently reluctant to drift outwards and get wet. Since the smoker was also swigging from a beer bottle between drags, I thought better of complaining. Instead I did my best to appreciate the street scene, which included another drinker urinating, not in a doorway or alcove - a gesture that passes for politeness in Dublin - but against the general shop-front. With so much water around, maybe he thought no one would notice.
There was no street scene visible from the bus, because all the windows were steamed up. For entertainment, we had to make do with the small stream that had formed itself on one side of the upper deck, and was washing an empty Coke can to and fro.
I watched it from the opposite bank, with grim fascination. When the bus climbed a hill, the can floated down to the back. When we descended, the tide turned and it floated forwards again.
There were four other passengers on the upper deck, all wet and on their mobile phones and speaking languages other than English. One laughed every so often - a little hysterically, I thought. Maybe he was talking to his family in the Caribbean and trying to describe the Irish summer.
I wiped the glass to see where we were and, peering out into the Stygian gloom, suddenly realised that the longest day of the year was almost upon us. When the can floated past again, I felt like putting an SOS in it.