You can say what you want, but I believe the weather here is controlled. Don’t give me the ‘It’s just the Atlantic’ spiel, I’ve lived under this sky long enough to know it’s not just random. My phone pings: ‘Rain stopping in 30 minutes.’ And sure enough, like clockwork, it stops. I barely have time to think, ‘Grand, I’ll put the washing out’ before the clouds regroup like they’ve had a team meeting and decide to soak me again.
And then there are the criss-cross trails in the sky. Oh yes, I’ve seen those lines upon lines, neat as you like, playing tic-tac-toe up there. Officially, they’re ‘contrails’ from planes. Unofficially, they’re the fingerprints of whoever is fiddling with the weather controls.
I picture it now, a lad in a high-vis vest in some underground control room, mug of tea in one hand, a massive weather joystick in the other. He’s watching a bank of screens, chuckling away. ‘She’s after hanging out the sheets. Right, give her five minutes of false hope and then open the taps.’
Met Éireann call it forecasting. I call it programming.
And you know what? It’s not just the laundry they’re after. Ever notice how it’s glorious sunshine all week when you’re stuck at work… and the minute you’re free for the weekend, the heavens open? That’s not a coincidence, that’s scheduling. Someone somewhere is deciding exactly when we’ll need the umbrella, the wellies, or the factor 50.
Now, if you ask me, it’s all part of a bigger plan. Keep the grass growing so we can’t keep up with mowing it. Keep the roads wet so the potholes double overnight. Keep us guessing so we always have something to talk about in the queue at the shop. Control the weather, and you control the people — especially the Irish.
Honestly, the only one not bothered by it is the dog. He doesn’t care if it’s lashing sideways rain or blazing sunshine; he’ll still sit at the door waiting for his walk. Meanwhile, I’m standing there, glaring at the clouds like they’ve got a personal vendetta.
So next time you see me glaring at the sky, know this: I’m not just annoyed about the rain; I’m watching the biggest game of remote-controlled chaos ever played. And when the fella upstairs finally slips and gives us three days of solid sunshine, I’ll be ready. I’ve got the deck chairs, the sun cream, and enough tea to invite the whole parish round. Your move, Weather Lad.”
So next time someone says, ‘It’s just the Atlantic, Mae,’ I’ll smile sweetly and let them believe it. But I know. We all know. Somewhere out there, there’s a weather operator with a wicked sense of humour, a big red ‘RAIN’ button, and far too much time on his hands
UNDER THE WILL... OVER THE DRAMA... 
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