We’ve been past the point of help since early April

So I can’t enter the Abbey Theatre’s “Dear Ireland Part Two: The Dear Irelanding” letter writing competition because my wife (my wife) works there and I certainly have not written a different one of these and submitted it under a suspiciously bland pseudonym. If had done that, this would be one I believe would have had a better chance but just wasn’t quite as good, or at least not as heartfelt. But I didn’t do that so it’s not a thing. Anyway, here’s my Dear Ireland letter. 

Dear Ireland,

How are you doing? You're looking well, in all this sun. These streets of yours are cleaner now with the lockdown lift. For a while there you'd gotten a little grim, as if you'd gone too many days without a shower, hiding behind pulled curtains, pizza boxes and empty cans strewn about. But we all have our rough patches. I know that I do.

And as for me, I spent the morning moving from room to room, ushering bluebottles out of windows. I feel the futility of this. The big glass door in the kitchen is wide open and the flies just keep coming on in. It's a hot one and it's only getting hotter. Today, yes. But forever now, year on year. The end is always nigh, I guess, but it feels even nigher now. Feels, is.

Look, I'm going to keep recycling, cycling. Turning off the tap when I brush my teeth. I don't eat meat, drink dairy. I rarely flew before the virus and now I doubt I'll fly again. But it's all a bit like me and the bluebottles. Busy and pointless.

And how about you? I hear that today you'll argue before the Supreme Court that it's all grand, we're in safe hands and we shouldn't wrecking our heads with these Paris targets anyway, we're too small, sure what difference can our little old islandmake? I get it Ireland, I do. But couldn't you just set an example? Turn off a fracking tap or two? Tweak a planning law, here and there? Or maybe just get your head out of the fucking sand? 

Sorry, I'm sorry. I honestly meant to be nice. Because you're special Ireland, you must know that. People the world over look at you, follow you. They think you're deadly, with your smoking bans and your plastic bags and your marriage equality. I do sometimes wonder why, but it's true. So how about it? For me, for my grandkids? For you?

It's another glorious day, Ireland. I'm back to work soon, after this strange and terrible holiday. This economy that you love so well must be fed again. These long days of enforced languor are coming to end for now.  I'd best chase my bluebottles while I may.

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