This week, I am reminded of my dear friend P, commenting that the Irish always whinged about the weather. As two non Irish people living in that amazingly dank-but-beautiful Georgian city, he would confide in me, a Dunhill mild in one hand, “Ere, Bridge, do you think they might have guessed from climate patterns over the last millennia that the weather just might be pants again this year? They’re all like ‘oooh, the bludy wever’. Like they’re surprised? ‘Oh it’s raining in Ireland again. Who would have thought?””
Melbourne this week: wet, cold, and everyone in their black gear are rushing here and there in the biting wind, pale faced and bitchy (me). Not as bone clenchingly chilly as Dub, weather here is notable for it’s mercurial nature. Crowded House wrote a song about this very thing. In the last half an hour it has shone, drizzled, shone again, rained and then hailed. It’s clearing again now – footpaths are still wet and choked with brown damp leaves.
And yet, people are still surprised at the weather and how hand chappingly shit it is. It’s not just an Irish thing is it?