Good morning from Dublin.
Please consider this blog an official cry for help. A communication which will, when examined in the future, become the documentation of a natural disaster. I have woken to discover a most disturbing situation. Overnight, a strange liquid appears to have fallen from the sky.
We here in Ireland – Europe’s driest and sunniest nation – have no idea what this is. I watched out the window as neighbours stood looking skyward trying to figure out what is happening. A most peculiar greenness has overtaken our brown, scorched land. It is said that this is the green of death itself.
“It’s a curse from God”, said one. “We have displeased him and now he is punishing us with this unprecedented moistening.”
“Do not be foolish, brother”, said another. “There must be a more simple explanation for this. Nature is magnificent yet unpredictable. Perhaps this is simply another string to her bow. One that we have not previously encountered. We are a resilient, resourceful people. We will ensure that we make the best of it, despite the fact that our very lives are on the line.”
One woman spoke of seeing a slow movement of greyness across the sky. The blueness that was always there before was taken over by giant pillows which came together to form a blanket. The rays of the sun, those rays which have nourished us every day of our lives, were blocked out and people stared in awe as our golden ball of life disappeared behind this tapestry of dullness.
The birds fell silent and all of a sudden a great herd of them took to the air heading southwards, crying and cawing and performing murmurations which left those on the ground with a feeling that something was very wrong. The cattle in the fields lay down – a phenomenon never seen before that had farmers vexed and perturbed. One can always judge the seriousness of a crisis by the response of the farming community.*
Quite where we go from here is anybody’s guess. If only there were a science dedicated to the weather. How has humanity overlooked such an important thing for so long? For those in the future who read this bulletin, please don’t make the mistakes we have. Our civilisation might have endured had we not been so in thrall to the sun and its waves of heat and light.
I am no expert, I can merely guess, but in order to document this catastrophe so that others may learn from it and never repeat the errors of planning and tanning that we have, it seems likely that the pathways we know now will be submerged. Streets will become streams, boulevards brooks, and roads rivers.
We do not possess canoes, the one thing that might save us. We saw other countries and scoffed. Why would we need long pointy weird boats with paddles? Those are for people up creeks of liquid – and perhaps other substances – which we do not have in this great land. Our hubris has been our undoing and the fault for our destruction lies with us and us alone.
We have heard talk of a device which could save us but perhaps it is just myth, urban legend. If this reaches you in time, and there is a concerted effort, perhaps these ‘brellas’ might just enable enough of us to survive this great and furious wettening. If not, remember us as a good people. Tell our stories. Let our legend live on in words and song.
The Irish were fair and the Irish were dry
They soaked up the sun but then they did die
Their pleas for help came, but way way too late
On this day in July, we’ll remember the date.
* Once, many years ago, a farmer assured the government that without intervention his flock of sheep would succumb to an illness that would leave Ireland without lamb for many years to come. The Minister for Agriculture, a strange man with a head like a shovel who rode a peculiar bicycle, dismissed the claims on national radio as ‘Wanton Bollockery’, but as sure as you like the farmer was proved right and the country endured the great lamb crisis which lasted for almost a decade. The Minister, shamed and now a pariah, resigned his position and took to lecturing people on the top of Dame Street about the perils of not listening. Of course nobody listened to him. He died at the hands of a madman on a Raleigh Chopper who, taking exception at the Minister touching his arm slightly, declared he would stab him to death. Few paid any attention but later that day he returned with, ironically, a shank made from an ancient lamb bone and did away with him outside the Spar as the Minister emerged with his chicken fillet roll, a dinner he’d enjoyed every day since his exile from high office began.