IRISH WINTER IS relentless. It’s not just that the rain doesn’t stop for months on end, or even that the air outside hurts my face, it’s that we are forced to go for an age without seeing the sun or daylight.

It’s when the moon hits your eye, and it’s 3.45pm that’s… an afternoon in January.

It’s how I have to defrost my car before and after work. It’s how life gets more and more unsustainable for all living things, including myself.

I spend all 87 months of winter waiting for summer, only to realise that when it finally does arrive, I had my rosé tinted glasses on.

Not only does summer take place over four days in Ireland, it’s also a lethal cocktail of fun, pressure, FOMO and guilt.

Summer, for me, is all about sunburn, existential dread and an overwhelming feeling that I’m not doing summer properly, that I’m not summering enough, or in the right ways.

Summer is supposed to be the best season, the one that changes everything.

It’s supposed to be cocktails, bare feet in sand, freshly cut grass and early morning hikes.

Then summer arrives, and I realise that I actually can’t do any of these things, because I have a full-time job that rudely still requires me to show up, and two........

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