Irony of power cuts won’t have been lost on the holy souls in the Faithful County
THE worst storm that I can remember was in December 1996. It seemed to come out of nowhere and pummelled east Cork right before Christmas, ripping the roof off the local co-op and leaving thousands without power. We lost our power on Christmas Eve and didn’t get it back for 10 days. This, of course, would not be that bad, only for the fact that we have a well, and no power meant no water – to drink, to flush, to wash.
That Christmas was never going to be an easy one, as we had lost my sister earlier that year. I can remember my parents and I sitting around the fire, all pretending that somehow this live re-enactment of ‘The Shining’ was a much more traditional Christmas, as opposed to an incredibly sad week-and-ahalf of darkness, despair and poor personal hygiene. We didn’t even have water to wash away the tears.
The most memorable part of the storm was the simple acts of kindness. People we hardly knew showed up to the door with water, hot food, and roasted turkey fresh out of the oven. That storm ranks as the worst and best I have lived through. I use it as a gauge for other natural disasters – the only questions I ask are: Are we all here? Is everyone OK? And who wants more melted ice cream? As long as you are safe and together, things are generally OK – although a decent supply of babywipes also helps.
It was disappointing to see Offaly get hit by Ophelia. The recent census figures showed that the county has the highest percentage of Catholics in the country, which I assumed made it some sort of promised land for the chosen people of Ireland. Apparently not, they got smote just like everyone else, despite being the home to important pilgrimage sites such as Clonmacnoise and that Barack Obama filling station in Moneygall.
Granted, there were a few missteps along Offaly’s path to righteousness, as the county is responsible for not one but two Cowens. They also declared war on heaven when Birr physicist George Johnstone Stoney coined the term electron in 1891 as the “fundamental unit quantity of electricity”, thus undermining the power of prayer, which up until that point had been fuelling the national grid. I’m sure all the poor souls without power in ‘The Faithful County’ will enjoy the irony of that. Perhaps this latest testing of their faith might make them want to move to Dún Laoghaire, which not only had electricity right through Ophelia but also has the lowest number of Catholics in the country. Coincidence? Probably, yes.
Trying to hide culchie ways
ISPENT Ophelia trapped in Dublin. My daughter and I travelled up on Sunday to make a hospital appointment on Monday morning that was subsequently cancelled, along with all of the trains out of the city. The culchie in me felt a rising panic as I realised I was going to have to spend another 24 hours in this terrifying metropolis, trying to hide my uncool, non-ironic country ways and singy-songy Cork accent.
I stood at the Luas stop for a tram that would never come, desperately trying to remember what the Five Lamps were, or how to make coddle, in case a local started talking to me.
The last thing any culchie wants is to be identified as such in the Big Smoke and subjected to the hate hoots of the million or so first generation Dubs whose parents only left a bog in Mayo two decades ago. We kept the heads down and prayed we would make it out alive, ready to burst into Aslan songs if anyone tried to chat to us.
As we walked through the city centre, businesses were pulling down the shutters, as staff got sent home to ride out what had become known as Bank Holiday Ophelia.
We passed throngs of bemused tourists clustering around important cultural attractions like Carrolls gift shops, those Paddywagon places, and Starbucks. But it’s good to know that when the trumpet sounds and the fall of man begins, we will still be able to get a pumpkin spice latte and a ‘Kiss Me, I’m Irish’ bonnet.
Wet, sad Irish eyes
IN the middle of the storm the news broke that Sean Hughes had passed away. Aged just 51, he was one of the great surreal comedians of the 1990s, but more than that, he seemed like a nice guy.
There was something loveable about his witty misery, his love of indie music, and his wet, sad, Irish eyes.