All hail that our weather is betwixt and between

Charlie Adley
Charlie Adley

Double Vision with Charlie Adley

Coat comes off and the mower get a service. Gloves go back on and the wellies come back out. Woolies are shelved and the anorak returns. Coat slips back off the hanger and the woollens come back out … In out round about, you do the Season hokey cokey and you turn around, and that’s what it’s aaaall about!

Oooohh the hokey cokey!

Ohhhh the hokey cokey!

Ooooh the hokey cokey!

It’s winter spring winter spring

And that’s what it’s all abow-owwww-out.

Lovely day isn’t it! Mighty! No?

Haven’t a clue. At this moment outside my window the sky is blue, the wind chilly and the showers fierce, but that’s five minutes ago and by the time you read this we might even be in the middle of a heatwave.

Or a blizzard.

Around nature’s year we construct things called seasons, and then we build expectations as to what the weather should be like. In England, February is perceived as pure winter, but here in Ireland you insist it’s spring, and then endure melancholy rituals, on barstools and kitchen chairs throughout the country, complaining that it’s terrible awful cold for spring.

Tending towards the binary way of thinking, we’ve evolved to believe something either is or is not. Either it’s winter or it’s spring. If it’s winter I have a blanket on top of the duvet and two bottom sheets. I know from sleeping out in fields and streets around the world that it’s what’s underneath you that keeps you warm. If you’re lucky enough to have a spare old duvet, next time we hit a cold snap tuck it under your bottom sheet.

Ohhh yeeeaaah mumma!

You’re a slice of cheese sliding under a grill. As soon as your flesh touches the sheets warmth envelops you, above and below.

A while back I decided that winter was over, stripped the bed, turned and rotated the mattress and packed the blanket away for another nine months.

Then, after a few cold nights telling myself I was a pathetic weakling mollycoddled by central heating who should harden up, I finally caved in, admitting I’d prematurely emptied my load into the laundry basket (ooooh matron!).

For more, read this week’s Galway City Tribune.