C’mon Leo, spring a few surprise Red Alert days on us to maintain our sanity
BY TUESDAY evening it was starting to feel a lot like Christmas. We had been preparing for days, planning menus and buying tons of bread, apparently, instead of tons of presents. Anticipation was high; some of us were even excited at the prospect, but still there was no snow. A few gentle flurries, a little amuse-bouche, now and again to tease our senses, but nothing substantial. Yep, it definitely had a bang of Christmas about it; the anticipation being far more delicious than the reality.
As I headed to bed on Tuesday night, the anti-climax was setting in. “Was that what all the fuss was for?” I wondered. Was it all some crazy dream as elusive as a harmonious festive dinner? But as I turned off lights and locked doors, the first proper snowfall began to descend on my corner of south Co Dublin. “Oh, maybe this is it?”, I thought as I joined the cat in staring out the window, although I know he was thinking very different thoughts. His little brain was rattling with words that went something like “what fresh hell is this now?” From the darkness of the kitchen, the garden seemed to glow as it slowly turned a ghostly white.
Wednesday morning and, before my alarm went off, I was woken by my phone pinging with a text message. Hallelujah, it was from the school. A Red Alert (I can only hear that now in Colm Meaney, aka Sharon’s da’s voice) had been issued and the school was closed.
It was here. A rare snow duvet day.
I was so excited I got out of bed a whole half-an-hour earlier than I normally do. I wanted to experience that special snow silence that only comes when the world is muffled in a white blanket. I wanted to see the pristine beauty of the garden before it was walked upon. Although it was decorated by the circular pattern of Mr Fox’s nocturnal wanderings as he searched for the dog biscuit I leave out for him every night.
I made tea and sat and enjoyed the rare suburban peace and quiet. As the sun rose and spilled its weak winter light, the garden shimmered gently. Then, around the time I should have been getting up, I filled a hot water bottle and headed back to bed. A glorious extra hour, or maybe it was two; with routines demolished, I have no idea how long it was before I arose for the second time.
As I write, Mr Fox has returned to the garden, clearly very hungry. I will shortly leave him out a bowl of dog food and I will top up the bird feeders. This was all before the more serious snow event yesterday evening. Those of us with a roof over our heads, heat to keep us warm and food on the table can perhaps enjoy another ‘day off’. Others clearly aren’t as lucky and I just hope Storm Emma won’t result in deaths – but today has been a lovely gift.
Days like these, surprise days when everything is put on hold, and we are given permission to light the fire, drink tea and read books, should be mandatory. Maybe one every six months. Now, before you start emailing, of course I know that not everyone is dispensable and yes, I am very grateful for all those who have to work, especially those in the emergency services – but I am talking in general.
SO Leo, how about you ‘task’ the emergency taskforce to spring a surprise Red Alert day on us twice a year. Out of the blue. We could all be woken by texts to our phones telling us that the following day is cancelled. We would get 24-hour notice of no school, no créche, no public transport, everything closed so that we can all stay home and enjoy a day of nothing more than drinking tea and reading or watching movies. Or if it’s a summer one, make sure there’s some sunshine forecast so we could all top up on our vitamin D. This would fit with your ‘healthy nation’ notions.
Nowadays, we all seem to worship at the altar of being very busy. But busy is not a virtue and it may be causing us and, indeed, our kids undue stress. A ‘do nothing’ day that would force us all to take time off, to slow down, to do nothing, to enjoy our loved ones and even smell roses or coffee or whatever.
Ireland could lead the world in this new idea. In decades hence they might say: “It was the Irish who invented surprise Red Alert days which are essential to good mental health.”
Now, enough of writing. There’ a Red Alert and so I must get back to my book. And my tea. And the fire.