Summer is coming. The days are longer, the trees are greener, and now we only have to carry our jackets around instead of wearing them.
Every year we get swept up in the cheerfulness of the sun finally coming out to play. One nice day and we think “that’s it, Summer has arrived. It’s all ice cream and flip flops from here on out”. So naive.
Because we forget the true meaning of Summer in Ireland. The only thing it guarantees. The only constant.
The stripy little demons that make you flap about like a fool. It’s impossible to look calm and classy when there is a wasp buzzing near your face. One minute you’re Grace Kelly, composed and beautiful, coolly surveying the world in dark glasses and a headscarf, the next you’re doing an impression of an awkward bird and looking like a lunatic.
Unlike their cutesy striped cousins, the bumblebees, wasps are vindictive. They go after you. If you’ve been stung before, you know the pain, and don’t wish to revisit it. If you haven’t, it’s somehow worse. The fear of being stung is heightened by the fear of the unknown, and you shriek and flap with the best of them.
Summer in Ireland does not necessarily mean sunshine (although it usually does mean sunburn, somehow).
All we can be sure of, come June, is that those sharp-arsed little bastards are coming after us.