Worrying About Schrödinger's Cat

I always enjoy Julian Simpson’s writing; in whatever form it takes. Last week, he shared a piece from his website about how we might cope with the looming 2026. The piece has now gone back behind the paywall. Julian is well worth the cost of getting through the paywall so, if you fancy it. Here’s a link:

https://www.cartoongravity.com/how-to-cope-with-2026/

In the middle of the piece, he says, “Whether it's a global pandemic or an issue at work, the moment we're inside a problem, we're not worrying, we're acting. Worry is not the response to a problem, it is the anticipation of something that has not yet happened and, crucially, may not happen.”

I do that. I worry about things that haven’t happened yet and that may not ever happen. I worry about some of them a lot. I think of the various ways these things might go and what I will do if they go one way or go the other. I give it all a lot more time that I should.

In my head, I call it ‘Worrying About Schrödinger's cat .’

Like me, you probably know a little bit about Schrödinger's cat . It’s a thought experiment in which a hypothetical cat in a closed box may be considered to be simultaneously both alive and dead while it is unobserved, as a result of its fate being linked to a random subatomic event that may or may not occur. I lifted some of that out of Wikipedia. I’m not that smart.

The key takeaway from the above spiel is that the Cat may be simultaneously both alive and dead. Hold onto that. I know I do.

If I had a hypothetical box and Schrödinger's hypothetical cat was inside of it, I would worry the shit out of that situation. There it is now, on my living room floor, right in front of the telly. It’s the size of a shoe box – no, wait, a box that had knee high boots in (more room to breathe in there). The box is wrapped in brown paper and there’s twine around it and it’s sealed with a blob of red sealing wax. And there’s a cat in there. And it may be alive. And it may be dead.

Shit. I’m worried now about this hypothetical non-existent cat. She’s alive. Does she have water, enough room to move around? Is he stressed? Lonely? He’s dead. Will he start to smell. Can I throw the box out as it is or do I need to open it and take the deceased moggy out? Do I have to bury it? Will the council or perhaps a vet take it away?

This box doesn’t exist. There is no cat, no alive or dead. Yet, here I am, worried about it.

I’m being silly to make the point but I really do this quite a lot. I love a problem, to a certain extent. If it’s a choice between having a problem or no problem, I’ll take the no problem option every time. Who wouldn’t? But if it’s a choice between a problem and a potential problem with more than one possible outcome then give me the problem. Please, the problem.

It’s like Julian said, the moment it’s a live problem, I’m off trying to solve it. That I can do. But I have a lively and rather vivid imagination and, before the potential problem becomes an actual thing, I can practically exhaust myself by worrying about it.

I’ve being through a rather earnest bout of this recently. The problem hasn’t materialised but, if it had, I had it sorted in fifteen different ways. It just never arrived… well, it hasn’t yet. Maybe it will… (stop it, Ken, just stop).

I manage these tendencies. I try to be mindful in a half-arsed sort of a way. I notice the trees and the quality of the air and the sunlight when there is some. I tell myself that, “at this moment, everything is all right.” And all that helps and works to a certain extent.

But the ghost/non ghost of Schrödinger's Imaginary Cat is never very far away. Lurking around some corner or leaning stiff again some wall. I’m never sure which.

But I worry about both.

I’ll be fine though. I’ve been doing this a long time now and I just need to keep reminding myself not to.

For the week that’s in it, can I wish you, Dear Reader, a warm and pleasant Christmas without too much worry and stress. And if it’s a bad time of year for you, I get that. Just remember that Winter will pass soon and better, brighter days will be with us again.

Thanks for coming by this year and all the very best

Ken x

Losing Touch

I’ve been on Social Media for a long time and, along the way, I've come into contact with a lot of very fine people. That was mostly on Twitter. I would go so far as to say that I made good friends there. For a considerable number of years, it was really great and, sad and all as it may sound, it was an important facet of my life. But these days, I find that I’ve largely lost touch with most everyone I used to interact with back then.

That’s the blog post for this week. There’s no real need to read any more. I may expand on the above couple of sentences a little bit. I may waffle. But I don’t expect to reach any meaningful insights or conclusions beyond that which has been set down in the lines above. It just is what it is.

I could make it easy and say that my giving up on Twitter (or X, as at became) was the primary reason for losing touch as I have. I had to leave. A critical point was arrived at, where I could no longer countenance sharing my words on such a spoiled and demeaned landscape. I went over to Bluesky and found some lovely people to chat to, some old Twitter renegades, some new delightful folk. But the loose interactive cohort of old Twitter days was gone from me.

I could certainly pin all this on my departure from Twitter and wrap everything up nicely that way. But that wouldn’t really be the truth of it. The truth is that the cohort had disbanded long before Twitter descended into X and it all fell apart, for me at least.

So I ponder sometimes what happened. I am well capable of dreaming up scenarios and reinventing history to suit some creative narrative of my own making. So, I have to keep all that in mind if I ever embark on a flight of fancy as to why so much contact was lost. In truth, I’ve only ever come up with a total of two part-meaningful theories, both of them probably incorrect.

My first fanciful theory is that the death of my friend Simon Ricketts marked the end of something substantial. That he was a glue that held it all together, a beacon towards which many people sailed. I think there’s some truth in this but I don’t think it’s a final reason in itself as to why the fellowship broke. If Simon could, I think he would be aming the first to pour a trickle of cold water on the idea. He might remind me that he was just a fella and that was all there was too it. As a bonus, he would reassure me about the niggle I have about using the word ‘friend’ about him in the first line of this paragraph. We only met a few times and Simon was famously friends with most everyone who came into contact with him. So how sad am I to still apply the word friend to the rather passing acquaintance I had with him? But, like I said, Simon would soon straighten me out on that, if he were here. He would assure me that we were indeed mates and that that will never change. He’s not here to do it, so I do it for myself, in honour of him. Simon was my good friend. Deal with it, Ken.

Was his passing an end of something? I have no doubt in my mind that it was. But was it the end of everything? That, I’m less sure of.

My second fanciful theory is best summed up by a line from a Neil Diamond song, “… as though I’d done someone wrong somewhere, but I don’t know where…”. My over-active mind could easily conjure a scenario where I did or said something wrong and, even though I have no idea what that might have been, my involvement in the loose cohort ended as a result. Somewhere, on some remote electronic interface, all of the old friends and confidants are still there, chatting away to each other as they always did. Once every couple of years referring briefly to the terrible faux pas that Armstrong made, shuddering briefly, then moving on.

I don’t believe this. Not at all. But I feel it’s worth mentioning because I bet I’m not the only one who could think like this, if I permitted myself to do so. Sometimes it’s a long trek across Social Media without a drink of water and one can get to wondering where the hell everyone has got to. So I set this notion down, not to make myself look foolish, which I fully realise I am doing, but to show other like-minded people that they are not alone if they ever think like this.

And finally, to quote another song, Tom Waits this time, “Charlie, for Chrissakes, if you wanna know the truth of it…”

The simple truth of the entire affair is that time passes (“listen… time passes"). We move on and we move away. We slip apart. No one, two, or three things made it happen. No horrible incident made it happen. It just… happened.

I run into members of that Old School all the time, on the electronic highways. Someone likes something I typed or sends me a warm little message or I do the same for them. There was never any dissolution or break up of fall out or loss. There is only time and moving on.

And the final truth, if one could face it?

There never really was a cohort.

There was a lively, warm, engaging, occasionally messy, juxtaposition of messages from a time when a lot of good people were all in the same place at the same time. It never really existed and paradoxically, it could never really last.

So, as you can tell from all of the above, I don’t really know what it was, let alone where it went.

And, if I miss it now and again, from time to time, well that’s okay too.

Castlebar to Ballina – A Setlist

I sing in the car. So shoot me.

In actuality, it’s been quite a while since I’ve been singing in my car. The way I figure it, there are two basic reasons. Firstly I haven’t been in the humour for singing too much and, secondly, I haven’t been in the car too much. Two fine reasons, I think you’ll agree.

And when I was making the short, thirty minute, drive over to Ballina the other morning, I had no predetermined intention of doing any of my patented car singing. But these things just tend to happen. What happened was, a song came on the radio and it just fitted into my head very well at that moment so I sang along with it. With considerable gusto, I might add. After all, it was just me and the curious faces of the drivers going in the opposite direction. So why not?

The song, in case you’re wondering, was, “I’ll Have to Say I Love You in a Song’ by Jim Croce.’ It’s one of those songs that seems to fit with my ramshackle old bass voice. It’s also one of those songs I forget about when I think about songs that I might be able to manage. So, catching it on the radio was a good moment. I sang along, all the way through. Then, when it was over, I fancied singing it again so I turned the radio off and did just that. I discovered I‘d forgotten a few of the words in the middle eight but never mind. On we ploughed. Incidentally, here’s something else I just discovered. Until today, I would have sworn to you that the song was called ‘I Had to say I Love You in a Song’ and, as you can see from the text about, it clearly isn’t. I’ll probably keep singing it the wrong way now because it’s embedded that way. That is, if I ever remember to sing it again.

Anyway, I digress. After finishing that little number, to copious internal applause, I moved on to ‘King of the Road’ by Roger Miller, which works well but I wish I had a better way of ending it. Then I did a bit of ‘La Mer’ by Charles Trenet, bluffing the French lyrics as best I can and morphing the entire hot mess into ‘Beyond the Sea,’ as I tend to do. After that, there was a bit of ‘I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love with You’ by Tom Waits, from his very first album ‘Closing Time, back when he wasn’t gravelly. It’s an album beloved of a large number of Irish people of a certain age. Quite right, it’s a lovely record, but it’s a shame they don’t know more of his wonderful catalogue. As if to punch home this point, I did a bit of ‘Chocolate Jesus’ for the passing motorists. I wound the random little recital up with a brief refrain from the Broadway show ‘The Fantasticks’ with ‘Try to Remember.’ I think I can sing this one but, deep down, I know I really can’t. I was in Ballina by then and it’s not cool to sing in towns. It’s strictly an open road pursuit.

I figured I was done then but there was another bit of a remote road out the far side of Ballina and I was self-encouraged to attempt an assault on ‘Cracklin’ Rosie’ by Neil Diamond. It always amuses me to pretend in my head to be introducing the song and explaining how it is actually an ode to a sparkling rose wine. It’s a song that seems to be designed to catch the unwary car singer out. But if I start it off in a low enough register, I can sometimes get by just bawling out the higher stuff that unleashes in the middle.

Then I was at my destination, a little hoarse but ready to work.

I think my unprovoked resurrection of my truly awful car singing may be something of a good sign. Maybe I’m getting back to a little clear water after a short period of rocking and rolling on the high seas of life. I’ll try to keep at it if I can, even if it clearly benefits nobody but me.

It reminds me of an age-old Limerick I saw in some book once:

There once were three owls in a wood

Who always sang hymns when they could

What the words were about

One could never make out,

But one felt it was doing them good.

Til next time…

Books Etc.

I thought I might take a moment and mention a couple of books I read this year that I enjoyed a lot.

I am a reader and, although I have been called both, I am neither a ‘voracious reader’ nor a ‘widely read' person. I think it’s safe to say I have have read some part of some book every day of my teenage and adult life. But my reading is confined to one serious session before sleep, twenty minutes over lunch, and the odd ‘sit on the couch and just read’ sessions. With this occasional, erratic, but constant routine, I get through quite a few books and I’ve been doing it for so long it’s added up to quite a list of books read. But ‘voracious’? Alas, no.

As always, I am indebted to the Castlebar Library Book Club, where I’ve been going monthly for the best part of two decades. Every month, the good people there put their heads together and suggest a book that I probably would never have found all by myself. Because of this, my reading horizons have been broadened from the murky corners I would have previously habituated. Every month doesn’t hit 100% home but that’s kind of the point. It’s like a taster menu in a better class of restaurant than the ones you normally frequent.

So the two books I want to mention specifically were both choices at this years Book Club sessions.

Here’s the first:

West by Carys Davies:  A slender, but wonderful, novel set in Pennsylvania an 1819 in which a bereaved father sets out on a misguided and very lengthy expedition to find prehistoric animals which he believes could still exist. He leaves behind his 10 year old daughter, in the care of his sister, and off he trots. Along the way, he enlist the help of a Native American boy and, together, they face the immense hardships of the American Frontier while, back at home, his daughter has her own severe challenges to meet.

My Grandfather, Sammy, used to love ‘Cowboy Books’ and, as a lad, I used to delight in rounding up and driving home volumes of Louis Lamour and Zane Grey from the local library. I have since found much to admire in various books set in the so-called ‘Old West’. A friend pointed me towards ‘Lonesome Dove’ which carried me along with it like a tide. More recently, there was the wonderful ‘The Heart in Winter’ by Kevin Barry, 'Butcher’s Crossing' by John Edward Williams, and the unshakable horrors contained in ‘Blood Meridian’ by Cormac McCarthy. There is something rooted and without guile in so many of the stories set in this era. The older I get, the more I seem to appreciate them.

‘West’ is one of those books I would be happy to recommend to anyone. It is moving and insightful. It is unexpected and human and it rattles onward to a thundering (if slightly unlikely) conclusion.

And here's the second:

The Safekeep by Yael van der Wouden: I would never have read this, if it weren’t for Castlebar Library Book Club. I mean, never. This is one of those books where anything I tell you about it would tend to lessen its effectiveness. I had read one review before I read the book and, although the reviewer was ultra-careful in what they revealed, I still found myself primed for the arrival of certain moments in the story and subconsciously expectant of where it was going and where it ultimately went. Have I said too much already? I hope not. We give our reads star ratings out of five and I gave this a very rare five. The writing and the insight into the characters wrapped me up and engrossed me and the story, which is outside of that which would normally engage me, did exactly that. This one won’t be for everyone, I reckon. But, damn, it worked for me.

Other non-Book Club books that hit some this year included ‘On the Calculation of Volume – Book 1’ by Solvej Balle. I came to this with a lot of expectation. It sounded right up my street. And, in fairness, it turned out to be a little slower and more reflective than I expected it to be. But I am still looking forward to getting to the second (and, hopefully) subsequent volumes, so it must have done something right.

In retrospective reading, I became immersed in ‘A Fringe of Leaves’ by Patrick White. This book has been pointed out as including negative depictions and/or mistreatment of people or cultures and that should be taken into account. Respecting this, I found the heightened language and slowly unfolding misfortune of the story engrossing.

Finally, at the moment, I am reading, and having a good time with, ‘The Lincoln Highway’ by Amor Towles. Amor hit big with the Book Club some years ago with ‘A Gentleman in Moscow.’ And, whereas this book did not meet the same critical and general success, I am enjoying the ride, nonetheless. Towles writes in an accessible, straightforward style of a kind I always admire. He takes you along with him with a deceptive ease. If you enjoyed ‘Gentleman in Moscow’ and fancy an American road trip which doesn’t go quite where you expect it to go, then you might like this one.

Books are great. Whenever I crack the spine of my current one, at the end of any given day, I feel like I am home.

Goodbye Halloween Frog

The Halloween Frog is gone now.

This morning, while it was quiet, I went up the street with my trusty spade and I slid it under him, lifted him, and carried him to the copse at the bottom of the green. There, among the grass clippings and the secateured twigs, I laid him to rest.

This wasn’t good neighbourliness or even civic duty. The Halloween Frog had been playing on my mind, sufficient to be the subject of this week’s blog entry. So it was in my own interests to see him moved on to somewhere less public.

I can close the book on him now… right after I’ve told you a bit about him.

The Halloween Frog showed up a few days before Halloween. At first, I thought he was still alive. He was sat on the pavement, right on the corner where one street in the Estate becomes another. It was nice to see him, a perfect little frog right there on our street. It wasn’t a normal sight. It was kind of cool. Except. Well, except he was dead, of course. That became clear pretty quickly, on closer examination. I wondered what had killed him. He was in a perfectly natural Froggie pose and there wasn’t a mark on him. Not then at least. I gave a mental shrug and moved on. Nothing to see here.

He was still there on my way home from work and he was a slightly less welcome sight, now that it was clear that he had not moved since I saw him last nor would he ever move again. Not of his own accord anyway. If he was ever going to move again, somebody was going to have to move him.

And nobody did.

He was quite the little stroll from my house so I didn’t see it as my thing to be going up there and moving him. Maybe I should have. Eventually I did. But not soon enough. Not quite soon enough.

On the second day, the day before Halloween, the frog had developed an extrusion of white foam from its mouth area. It seemed a little flatter on the ground. Not quite the firm, rounded, figure of the day before. On Halloween itself, the foam was slightly more pronounced and the roundedness was slightly less so. Something was happening, that was for sure, and it wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t fun.

And, because of the day and night that was in it, this thought started to rattle around in my head. Death is not fun. The rapid deterioration of the mortal frame is not cool or attractive by any stretch of any imagination. Yet here we were in that day and evening when little corpses come out and circumnavigate the neighbourhood in search of sugary treats. Their homes are decorated with long haired skulls that scream silently at passing folk, their front gardens boast half open caskets with skeletal hands groping their way out.

And, all the while, a very real creature was slowly turning to corruption, right out there on the front street.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Halloween. Always have. As a kid I was fascinated by walking skeletons and spooks and Hollywood monsters. Just like all the other kids. Hell, I still am. It’s just, this year, the little frog and its insalubrious public deterioration made me wonder a bit. I wondered about what logic drives us to encourage this fascination in death and ‘the skull beneath the skin’ in our little kids. Are we preparing them for something in the nicest, most fun, way possible? Or are we cocking a snook at the fate that inevitably awaits us all a little way down the road?

You can see why I needed to get my spade, this sunny Sunday morning, and commit the frog-corpse back the wood from whence it hopefully came. By this morning it was a flat jelly-like simulacrum of a reptile, covered in billows of grey viscous foam.

Halloween is a very good thing, to my mind. But it is also good that it keeps itself a considerable distance from the truth of the things it proports to celebrate. It also helps that it dodges two of the most unavoidable realities of death.

One, that we won’t really continue to look all that cool after we go.

And two, that we are not ever coming back.

Getting Back on the Horse

In any given year, there are two danger moments in the life of this little blog.

This is one of them.

The first always comes on New Year’s Day or, to put it more accurately, on the first day of the year when a new blog post is required. The second comes when the produced work for the year is finished, as it is just now. This year, just like last year, it was the plays with Castlebar Musical and Dramatic Society. A wonderful experience but, as the man says, it’s all over now.

The two moments are the same but different. Try to imagine a little writing demon sitting on each of my shoulders, one being bad and one being good, and both of them whispering in my ears. At both of these danger times, the bad demon’s whispers are way, way louder than the puny good demon perched on the other side.

“What’s the point?” she says.

“Blogging died ten years ago, yet here you still are. Give it up. Instead of piddling it up against the wall, why don't you put this bit of writing energy into something that might actually become something, that might actually do something,” she says.

“Just stop,” she says.

The good demon, on the other shoulder, stays largely silent.

The reason that these danger moments occur is straightforward. On each of these two occasions, you see, I simply fall off the horse. The first occasion has a reason that is both straightforward and universal. Christmas. Once again, as with other years, I will have gleefully allowed my brain to stew in an orgy of old movies, family visits, and tins of Cadbury Roses. By the time the New Year comes around, I can no longer remember how to ride the horse that is my blogging habit. 

It’s much the same thing when the production of the plays comes to an end. Although I’ve been writing blog posts all the way through that process, the majority of those posts will have been about the plays, the rehearsals, the actors, the production. They sort of write themselves. Now that the plays are over, here is that famous blank screen in front of me once again and that girthy little demon sitting at my ear, telling me over and over that I simply shouldn’t bother. It’s a persuasive voice.

Yet here I am, scribbling.

Why is that?

Easy.

I don’t listen to my little demons, good or bad. I listen to myself. Also I find it hard to stop doing things… any things. If I have a pair of old shoes with holes in the soles and catastrophised uppers, I find it hard to stop wearing them. The Status Quo must be maintained wherever possible. This imperative drives me back, time and again, to the blank page. Even when the current blog post will only be a directionless ramble, as this one will clearly be, I am still here. Putting down the words.

But it’s more that that. This thing that brings me back and back to this rather fruitless endeavour, after 15 plus years of it.

Simple.

It’s good for me.

It’s good for my head and it’s really good for my writing. This almost-weekly act of compiling some increasingly elusive thoughts into a passably coherent thousand word post is an exercise that keeps my writing muscle in trim. When I come to write my other stuff, my fingers know where the keys are and my brain largely knows what is readable and what is not. (Said he, in a largely unreadable sentence).

I’ve said it before. I love it when people come and read these silly words and I love it even more when they tell me what they think of them, good or bad. But, over the years, this exercise has become far more about me than about you. Sorry about that, but it’s true. The thing that drags me back here, after Christmas revelries and Theatrical adventures are all done, well, it’s not good demons or force of habit or anything like that.

It’s just me.

So on we go. What will the next blog post be about, or the one after that? Not a clue, sorry.

All I know is, if I don’t get hit by a tram or something, I’ll be here working on them.

Be still, bad demon.

I’m writing here.

An Open Letter to Cast, Crew, Arts Centre, and Audience

Our two evenings at The Linenhall Arts Centre, which culminated last night, ticked several bucket list items for me. These included, bringing The Doubles Partner back to stage with a dream cast, finally having a go at subverting a raffle, and, joy of joys, getting to see my slightly rogue ‘A Sort of Whodunnit’ play realised at last for an audience.

Both nights were wonderful for me, in slightly different ways. On Thursday I got to be what I like to be on these theatrical evenings: a man who has most of his work done, who just needs to make sure a few final bits and pieces are in place. On these occasions, and last Thursday, I tend to lap up the atmosphere and commit all the loveliness to careful memory.

Friday’s show came from a different angle. By prior agreement, I had undertaken to play a part myself in the middle ‘Raffle’ half a play. I resolved many moons ago to stay firmly on the dark side of the floodlights but needs must and the show must go on. So, Friday evening I was a sweaty little bag of nerves, trying to memorise all the blasted lines I had so blithely written. Serves me right. In fairness, it was a memorable experience, to momentarily become, once again, a part of the nervous pre-show actorly energy. And, also in fairness, it was a genuine treat to get to stand on stage with my good friend Ronan Egan, a place where he so clearly belongs and I so clearly do not.

I want to write some heart felt "Thank Yous"…

To the actors (in order of appearance on stage):

The Doubles Partner: Donna Ruane, Eamon Smith, and Vivienne Lee.

The Raffle: Ronan Egan, Katie Padden, Jim Finan, Caoimhe Halligan, and Kate Loftus.

A Sort of Whodunnit: Eithne McGreal, Matthew Largent, Brendan Mullins, and Eimear Philbin.

Each and every actor made me feel lucky and grateful for what they brought to our little party. Thank you all!

I am always shaken and amazed at the levels of time and commitment that such talented folk are willing to give to my inane scribblings. I am forever in debt for the depth, width, and breadth you bring to the black and white words on the pages.

To the people who make the shows happen:

Anne Marie Gibbons: The ever-smiling powerhouse, the Maestra of the Direct Message, the  Vixen of the Voicemail, without whom nothing good would ever happen and nothing tricky would ever get done.

George Bernard Gallagher and Barry Keavney, Technical Gurus at The Linenhall Theatre: Ever stalwart, nothing too much trouble, did everything possible to provide us with a gleamingly lovely theatre space replete with lights and sound.

Sandra Gibbons and Declan Gibbons: The hardest-working Stage Managers this side of the Shannon. Ever cool, always with a solution to any problem. You both have saved my skin several times over and I am eternally grateful.

All of the Castlebar Musical and Dramatic Society esteemed members, who came to help at front of house and with the raffle (boy, did I mess you up with the raffle!!)  :) 

The Entire Staff of The Linenhall Arts Centre, from Management through Front of House peeps: You’re doubtless fed up looking at me, coming and going, with my sound effect skirting boards tucked under my arm, looking for something else. But you never say 'no', if you can help it, and the yeses always come with a friendly smile. Who could ask for anything more from their friendly neighbourhood Arts Centre?

Castlebar Musical and Dramatic Society: For a second year running, you let me run amok in your joyous sandbox of talent and commitment. It’s an unbelievable gift to be able to display my writing through your titanic society (‘Titanic’ as in ‘large’… not as in 'hitting icebergs'). I’ve got to do all these bucket list things with you. I’ve made highly valued new friends. I’ve lived the dream, really, these last few months.

And, finally, to the audiences. Each night, you came out and paid your hard earned dosh to see us. Rest assured, your money will all go to ensure a great musical production in March ’26. It couldn’t happen without you. More than anything, though, you came with your smiles and your pleasure at being out with friends and family and, for me, that’s one of the very best things.

So thank you. Thank you all!

And now, suitably inspired, I intend to retire to my untidy room for the hopefully short Winter, to try to write something entirely brand new, and to then see if anyone might like to meet up for a small reading…

K x

18^th October 2025

Bringing the Doubles Partner Back

It’s Show Week!

Eek!

We’re on, at the Linenhall, this Thursday and Friday.

Eek!

This past week has been the wonderful Wild Atlantic Words Festival here in sunny Castlebar and I’ll write more about that next week, after all the current melee has died down. But, all through this great week, people have been coming up to me and smiling and saying things like, “We’ve got our tickets,” or “We’re looking forward to Thursday/Friday night” or ‘Break a Leg” or “You’re some bollix,” though less of the latter, admittedly.

You can still grab a ticket or two if you’re in the humour for a theatre evening of smiles and surprises and maybe catching up with a few familiar faces. If other years are anything to go by, the tickets tend to run out and there’s often someone I’d love to see there who didn’t get in so, if you’re at all into it, don’t let that be you, eh?

The longer of the two plays is ‘A Sort of Whodunnit’ and I feel I’ve said all I should say about that one, prior to its first ever production on Thursday night. Suffice to say, I am buzzed about it and highly interested in how it greets the audience and how the audience, in turn, greets it.

But, having not said too much about it, to date, I also do want to confirm my overall high excitement about the first play we are doing this week.

The Doubles Partner was written as an entry for the inaugural Claremorris Fringe Festival, back in 2016. A three-hander, it feature Donna Ruane, Tara Kelly, and Eamon Smith. A stellar cast. To be able to revive it with two of the key players coming back to reprise their roles is a dream come true. Donna Ruane and Eamon Smith play a married couple in a slightly less than idyllic relationship. In the original, Tara played the eponymous doubles partner who comes to call, largely unannounced. I have collaborated with Donna and Eamon for many years and I adore them both. Eamon is a consummate actor. Donna had directed more of my plays than my characters have had hot dinners and is, herself, a wonderful award-winning actor.

To get Vivienne Lee to play the part of doubles partner is enormous for me. I’m a terrible little fanboy of Vivienne’s onstage work. At the end of every big musical she appears in, I’m up there by the stage, trying to get my word in about how bloody brilliant she was.

Having this power threesome devote their energies to my little play is a total joy and I am so delighted that it will open our theatre evening later this week.

Be there or be square.

 

Tickets for A Sort of Whodunnit and The Doubles Partner can be booked on 094 90 23733 or via this link: www.thelinenhall.com

Privileged and Scared

How do I feel?

The answer is right up there in the title. I feel privileged and scared. Sometimes one trumps the other. Sometimes the opposite one is winning out. Of course, I feel other things too. Excited, nervous, proud, amazed. It’s a time for feelings and there are plenty of those little suckers about.

But mostly… yes.

And damn right I should feel privileged. I am a local playwright, with a full time job that has nothing to do with playwrighting. Just another Joe with a laptop and a dream. But, man, what support I have. What support I get. I have Castlebar Musical and Dramatic Society on my side, that local behemoth of talent and endeavour. And I have The Linenhall Arts Centre on my side, our Castlebar community institution of all things creative, artistic, and good. As a writer, it is an utterly fantastic sandbox to be permitted to play in. CMDS provides such support and warm encouragement. Their top people schedule and organise and corral everything into place for my scribblings. Extraordinary stage managers hunt high and low for elusive props and ways to make things work. Show programmes are designed and finessed. Tickets are announced and announced again and, finger crossed, sold. And always the encouragement. The willingness of the incredible cast members to give their valuable time up for my writing. The huge commitment to the theatrical cause.

And then there’s the 'scared' part.

How could it not be scary? I remind myself constantly. It’s a play that’s never been seen before. How will it work in front of an audience? There’s sure-as-hell only one way to find out, and that’s to lash it out there and see what happens. Again, how could it not be scary?

But I’ll tell you one thing. I might be a bit scared for my writing and my directing and my whatever else. But I’m definitely not scared about the actors. When I set to work rewriting this play, in the aftermath of the joy of last year’s productions, I had four of the actors, from last year’s plays, firmly in mind for playing these roles. I rewrote for them and around them (which was interesting) and then I braced myself and went and asked them. And they all said yes. All four. Again, with the 'privileged'. And they are amazing. Amazing in their commitment to the work and in their willingness and skill in finding their way through the play. Working with them has been a joy and they don’t make me scared at all. My scary bits, such as they are, are all reserved for yours truly. The sneaking imposter feelings that we all get from time to time but which knowing doesn’t make any less potent.

But it’s all good. Very good, in fact.

I was looking at a Facebook video from John Breen and Mikel Murfi’s new production of The Quiet Man in the Dublin Theatre Festival, which I would love to see (I hope it tours). It looks incredible. At any other time, I might be somewhat jealous of the wonderful theatre endeavour, wishing I could be a part of something like that. Not this time though. This time, I have my very own thing, thanks to CMDS and The Linenhall Arts Centre. It makes me scared, yes, but that’s an integral part of the game. When they say do something that scares you, they don’t mean something that scares you a little bit. You have to just go for it.

Thanks, guys, for helping me do all this.

It’s a great, great privilege and, man, don’t I know it?

Tickets for A Sort of Whodunnit and The Doubles Partner can be booked on 094 90 23733 or via this link: www.thelinenhall.com

Whelmed

There are two reasons why the next few blog posts will be about my upcoming plays at The Linenhall Arts Centre here in Castlebar.

The first is because it will be a major focal point of my life in the coming weeks and I probably won’t be able to think about anything else to write about. 

The second is that I need to be talking about it to try to encourage you local readers to come along and see the plays. We have two nights worth of seats to fill and would love it if your bum was in at least one of them.

(Not implying that your bum needs more that one seat. Perish the thought!)

We’ve been rehearsing the plays for quite a while now and if you were to ask me where we are at right now, (Where are you at right now, Ken?), I would say it is all coming together but it hasn’t quite come together yet. Are you familiar with that particular moment? If you’ve involved in any kind of creative endeavour, I bet you are. It’s an exciting time, a rather nervy time. A time of excitement, anticipation, and bricking-it in approximately equal measure.

Yesterday I had the teenage playwriting workshop for three hours. I had a rehearsal of one of the plays straight after. This morning, I’ve been out early to the car boot sale, doing dodgy deals on antique stuff required for one of the plays. Flashing the cash and spitting on my hand. As I write this, I’m playing various bits of music and wondering how they will work if they're playing as the audience come in. I'm also simultaneously WhatsApping about the stage set up. 

I have a lot of help from a lot of great people in bringing these plays to the local stage. Castlebar Musical and Dramatic Society is a great big machine that puts on great big shows and to have their Rolls Royce engine driving my little plays is an amazing thing.

The casts are amazing too. The crème of acting talent coming together to bring these tatty words to life.

Yes, it’s nervy.

Yes, it’s busy.

But, yes, it’s incredible too.

I feel so darned encouraged and accepted. All I need now is for the casts to get a warm round of applause from two packed houses on the 16^th the 17^th October. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

You can help by purchasing your tickets at www.thelinenhall.com or on your phone via 094 90 23733 or by clicking on this part of the blog right here or on the image of the poster above.

It’s a lot to take on. Some might kindly tell me it's a little bit too much but I would respectfully disagree. These kinds of opportunities come along only very occasionally and you have to seize them with both hands, and a foot or two as well if needs be.

It’s a lot of pressure but I gladly accept it.

I’m not overwhelmed.

Whelmed, maybe, but not overwhelmed.

 

Puddy Resurrection

Paraphrasing the first line of ‘A Christmas Carol,’ Puddy was alive: to begin with.

As stories go, that is a rather spoiler-heavy revelation to throw in, right there at the outset. But I have to be mindful. At the centre of this story there is a deceased cat. Possibly somebody’s beloved deceased cat. I want to keep that in mind, as I tell you about last Sunday’s rather outlandish events. I want to keep a level tone for the poor unknown feline who lost its life out on the New Line Road.

So, to recap:

Puddy is our adoptive stray cat of about five years. She lives a predominantly outdoor life around the gardens and quiet streets of our housing estate. She is known to several of the neighbours and we like to think we have a special relationship with her because she spends her evenings in our living room and any nights she wants in her basket in the front hall. We feed her twice a day and she has a nice pied a terre in the garage in a straw-laden kennel, whenever she needs to have a night out and about. Puddy pretty much sticks to the neighbourhood, picking up her kindnesses wherever she can, but sometimes she has been known to go on a hike.

Puddy went missing on Friday 5^th September and was still missing on Sunday 14^th September. This was a long time by her standards and both Patricia and I were concerned she had come to harm. We did all the recommended things, I patrolled the adjoining areas, and we hoped for the best. By Friday the 12^th, I was covertly watching the Social Medias for advice on cats found dead on our local roads. There was one such advisory late on that Friday night and I drove out to see but it wasn’t Puddy. 

On last Sunday morning, which would have been the 14^th, I had one of these blog entries all prepared to post. It was intended to raise a little more local awareness about missing Puddy. It also reflected how other-worldly cats become when they go away. It’s almost like they slip into another dimension or something.

But before I could hit the ‘publish’ button on my post, one of those dead cat updates landed. A white cat, with black markings, lying at the side of the road about half a mile from us. Could somebody check if it were alive or dead? I got in the car and drove down. The cat was dead all right. I looked it over. It was largely unmarked by whatever had hit it. It had happened recently.

I was sure it was Puddy.

I got a bag from the car and gathered the body up into it. I drove it home and placed it in the coal bunker on a blanket. That may not sound terribly dignified by it is dry and protected place. It seemed for the best. I felt very sad and wished I had searched a little more thoroughly and a little further afield for my cat. She had many good years left, mooching around our back yards and snoozing in our spare armchair. It was a shame.

I had to tell Patricia and she was justifiably very sad. Patrica and the cat had bonded in a gentle way that had hardly seemed possible when the hissing little demon had first entered our lives.

I went back to my desk and reread the blog post that I had been ready to share. I rewrote it in a rather mournful tone, telling the sad tale while it was still very raw. I hit send. There were a lot of warm, sad, reactions from good people and I appreciated them all.

Are you with me so far?

In the afternoon, Patricia said she would like to see the cat. To say good bye and maybe help with a little closure. I went back to the coal bunker to make the cat as presentable as possible.

It was while doing that that I started to notice things. Were the black markings in the exact position where Puddy’s black markings had been. Was Puddy really that heavy? I got out my phone and started to compare photos of Puddy with the cat I now had. The markings were very similar. One black patch over one eye. A blotch of black on the spine. But was the photo reversed and was the black patch over the right eye? Surely this was my cat. A little altered in her deceased state, as was inevitable, but how could it not be? Then, a thought occurred. Puddy had been neutered and, because she was a stray, the tip of her ear had been snipped to confirm this to anyone subsequently checking her.

This poor unfortunate cat’s ears were intact.

Patrica had her jacket on, in the hall, and was ready for her viewing. I looked at her.

“I don’t think this is our cat.” I said.

What was meant to be a quite respectful viewing turned into a forensic examination. It didn’t take long. The cat we had was not Puddy, no question.

I often feel stupid. I sometime wonder if it’s my default setting. But I have rarely felt as stupid as this. On the one hand, and with all respect to the deceased cat, there is an element of dark humour in it. Not only had I brought the wrong cat home but I had also published a dirge to my own cat and shown it to my occasional readers at large. But, worse than this, I had brought a little unnecessary grief into our home when there has been grief enough there already. That was what really got me. My carelessness.

I went back to the housing estate adjacent to where I had found the cat and did some door to door visits. Nobody I could find knew of the cat. That cat has now been committed to eternity in an entirely respectful manner but their identity remains unknown. If you are missing a cat that looks like mine, and you live in Castlebar, you can contact me via the comments section and I’ll tell you what I know. I’m sorry if you find out this way. I really am.

The next evening, as we were having dinner, a hangry meow wafted in from the back yard. Puddy was out there, stressed and very keen to have some food. Perhaps the notes I had dropped around the estate had speeded her release from somebody’s shed. Perhaps she had just got lost and taken this long to find her way back.

Whatever happened, she’s back now. Old routines re-established. We are glad to have her back. We always valued her but maybe now we value her a little more and, who knows, maybe she even values us- no, let’s not be silly.

All I know is that, on the second evening of her return, she jumped up on the couch and settled her head in Patricia’s lap. A thing that has never happened before.

Perhaps it’s true what they say. That there’s no place like home.

Puddy in the Wind

FURTHER ADDEMDUM - Puddy came home last Monday. More info at the next blog post. Click here. 

ADDENDUM - The story below took a twist this afternoon when it became clear that the RIP cat I brought home this morning is not actually our cat. I was really sure it was. A detailed inspection showed some differences in its markings and no TNR ear snip.  I'll leave the words below up for now, if only as a record of my ongoing stupidity. Sorry for taking those of you who read it on a rather misguided emotional journey.  

Puddy is still missing and I intend to search with continued dedication, to hopefully find her and bring her back home. 

And if you're missing a cat that looks a bit like her, please let me know.

                *                    *                    *                    *

Puddy had been in the wind for nine days, as of this morning.

She didn’t turn up for her evening rendezvous in the armchair, on the Friday before last, like she always would. We didn’t think anything much of it. Puddy has always been an outdoors cat, who would only come in at the times that suited her, which was every day but only on her own strict terms. An evening of telly watching, a five hour daytime snooze in the hall basket, an overnighter whenever the mousing was slow.

So this morning made it a full nine days since she had been around. And I had a blog post all written about how cats seem to become quite mysterious and otherworldly after they go away. It wasn’t a terribly bad post.

But Puddy always had her own plans.

One feature of her years with us was her uncanny ability to subvert whatever we were just about to do. Late for work? In a rush? Puddy would turn up, needing something urgently. It was a given.

So I should have known that Puddy might retain the power to undermine my intentions one more time, just for Auld Lang’s syne.

As well as notifying the neighbourhood of her absence, and hanging her blanket out on the clothes line, I had been monitoring the notifications on all the ‘missing cat’ forums, and I’d been to visit a few sad roadside tableaus in the past few days, always pretty sure that our lass wouldn’t be found there.

But this morning’s one felt different.

Not only because the description seemed right, but also because of that aforementioned penchant for the disruption of best laid plans. My blog post about her continued absence was ready to hit ‘send’ on. What better moment for dear Puddy to shake things up, one last time?

So, with a rather heavy heart, and with apologies for getting nine paragraphs in (a paragraph for every day) without saying this, Puddy, alas, shuffled off her mortal coil last night. I retrieved her from a bridge down in the centre of town early this morning. Unmarked. Almost sleeping, but not quite. A swipe from a car the most likely cause, as she looked both strong and clean. I guess she got lost out on her travels, and hadn’t managed to wind her way home, as she had done several times before.

Many words have been written by me about Puddy in these pages. Our early battles, kittens, giving shelter, growing mutual involvement, coming into our home and our lives. I’ve enjoyed setting it all down and I’ve enjoyed being a part of it all unfolding. Our consolation will be that, from the moment we chose to look out for her, Puddy got to lead her own personal best life. Never wanting for food, warmth, care, or company. Never prevented from wandering free in her compact little neighbourhood, stalking, skulking, or just dozing in the sun.

She brought a considerable quantity of elegance and attitude into our lives, and after I became her friend, I was never not happy to see her coming. It will be a while before I stop glancing to my front door to see if that familiar brilliant white flash is out there beyond the glass.

Puddy has been in the wind for the last nine days and she will remain in the wind now, I guess.

It doesn’t matter at all that the only time I ever managed to touch her was when I gathered her up in her blanket and drove her back home this morning.

She managed to touch me every day.

 

Puddy - ? – September 2025

A Message from the Universe

Down at the petrol station, people park in front of the pumps but don’t buy any fuel. They just block the pumps for the people who need them. They saunter in and get their bacon rolls and their Mint KitKats and they saunter back out and they don't give a toss. It drives me a little bit askew. 

A few months ago, one person managed to park their car strategically so that all four of the centremost pumps were rendered unusable. It required a pinpoint level of accuracy and an immeasurable absence of empathy. I applauded the person as they returned to their car, having bought no petrol, of course. “Amazing parking,” I said as I slow handclapped, “truly amazing.”

Yesterday morning, I was setting off on a bit of a journey and I felt I should fill up the tank before I hit the road. Getting to a pump was a battlefield. Abandoned cars were strewn all over, as insensitive punters stocked up on toilet rolls and hash browns and no fuel whatsoever. I got to a pump eventually, unlocked my fuel cap, released the nozzle, jammed it into the appropriate orifice, squeezed the lever, and waited. And waited. The display showed the cost of the previous fuel fill. Forty Euro. Any moment now, it would reset to Zero and my fuel delivery would begin. I knew that a little alarm was sounding at the cash till inside the shop, alerting the staff to the fact that I was out here, in advance of my trip to Athlone, waiting to get a little gas in the tank.

Any moment now.

I waited.

My own personal fuel temperature began to rise. Badly parked cars, battles for space at the pump, delays en-route to destination, being ignored in my hour of minor need. I started to get the right hump. Perhaps I should let out a roar at the shop window, a Dustin Hoffman like protest along the lines of, “I’m waiting here!!” I could do it too. I have the lung capacity. That’s for damn sure.

Then I looked down.

Beside the petrol pump there stood a stainless steel circular bollard, about a metre high. It has a black plastic cap that fitted on top of the tubular fixture. It was evidently there to prevent errant vehicles from banging into the petrol pump. A guard, a protector, quietly doing its job.

Someone had taken a pencil and written on the top black surface of the plastic bollard cover. Where most writing instruments would not have made any impression on the dark surface, the graphite of the pencil had seemed to taken to the medium remarkably well. The single word, that somebody had written there, stood out in subtle but legiible relief from the background. The almost childlike cursive style seemed all the more personal and intimate. Somebody, probably somebody in my own heightened state of annoyance, had taken a moment, produced a pencil, and written a message to whoever may come after them.

A one word message.

The message said, “Smile.”

I don’t think I smile as much as I used to. I don’t think I’m alone in this. The world is a harsh place, in many ways, and we are plugged into the harshness of the world in a way that previous generations could not dream of. Two hundred years ago, a horror or a sadness on the other side of the world would never be known or considered. Today, it is in our heads two minutes after it happens. I'm not bemoaning this connectivity, I think it helps us to keep the world straight, to not let horrors be enacted without any repercussions. It's necessary, but it's also hard. We are plugged into the whole wide world and it is a pretty tough narrative to keep up with. 

I remember an illustration the appeared in a copy of the Radio Times when I was quite young, decades before Internet and Cable News. It showed a humanoid figure reclining in some kind of comfy chair. The naked form was connected by hundreds of cables running from every corner of its body to devices and machinery, being fed every aspect of the world directly into its being. The figure in the chair was charred and frazzled, twisted, and distorted, obviously in significant pain. I sometimes think we’ve kind of become that character. Wired to the whole planet and all of the grief and horror it has to offer. Bearing it all as best we can.

Maybe that’s why I don’t always smile as much as I used. Maybe it isn’t.

All I reckon, having read the single word message on the bollard at my local petrol station, is that it’s okay to smile now and again if we can manage it. More that that perhaps. There is, perhaps, an onus on us to smile and live and enjoy our lives as best we can. Because when we do that, we can remain strong and able to assess and fight and resist where necessary. If we try to carry the world on our packs, forever unsmiling, we will surely break in two and be of no use to anyone.

The petrol pump clicked and the fuel started flowing. I was on time for my meeting in Athlone and it was a useful meeting. I had a coffee afterwards and a nice chat with the guy I met. Not about the job or the cost of it or the difficulty in doing it. It was about his sons, and how he loves books about history, and how he can sing for hours if you give him a guitar.

And, somewhere in the middle of all that chat, I had a smile.

Weight Loss, Crunchy Gravel, and Guilty Secrets

My current attempts to lose a few pounds are going okay, I guess. 

The scales move downward, but only at the slowest of paces. Sometimes they go back up again. But the overriding trend is a downward grind over a period of months and I tell myself that’s all for the best. A slow loss of weight will make it easier to keep it off. All bullshit, of course. Any slight decline in poundage can so easily be undone by a couple of double size Mars bars and a litre of 7-Up.

Still, on we go.

My methodology is low key and old-fashioned logical. Eat less and exercise more, with neither of these things being done to any great extremes. Rather like a smoker (which I’ve never been) I have one big vice which it immediately benefits me to give up. I’ve already alluded to it and we’re only three paragraphs in. I will eat loads of rubbish and sugary things, if left unchecked. So I’ve checked it. The rubbish is out of the equation and, like the smoker, I can feel better by making that one adjustment alone. Add to that a drive to eat smaller meals with no in-betweens and that’s the full extent of my calorie-reducing regime. As for exercise, I do what I’ve always done except I try to do a bit more of it. I walk. I always walk quite a bit anyway but now I throw in an extra quota of walking whenever I can.

That’s all I do. You can tell I’m no expert, nor am I a person driven to weight loss excellence. I just want to continue a slow decline into Christmas then hope to fuck I can get through that festive season without piling it all on again in one short week. If I had one word of insight or help to anyone who is thinking of doing the same, I would offer that fact that every half pound lost feels like a victory and evokes a little increase in self-esteem. You don’t have to become Where’s Wally to feel like a success at this game, however misguided that may be.

None of which is the point of this week’s post.

Some of the walking I do is around our local lake. We have a designated pathway around half of the lake, a circuit with two bridges, and it is the best thing since sliced bread. Peace, nature, a view of The Reek in the distance, ducks, swans, reeds gently swaying in the breeze, wild flowers, little dogs, big dogs, smiling people… it’s a good place for a walk. There’s a car park you drive into, along with all the other cars, and you set off in one direction and you arrive back from the other direction (in the nature of circuits all over the world) and it takes about 25 minutes to get around so you go around twice or even three times. It’s all good.

But, just lately, as an added bonus, I’ve started parking in another car park which adjoins the lake path in an altogether different location. This public car park is much less used and parking my car there gives me the feeling that I have my own private access to this most public of places. It also has a remarkable, hard-to-define bit of loveliness that makes it a slice of heaven for me.

Gravel. It has gravel.

You heard, the car park is finished with lovely, crunchy, loose stone rather than the utilitarian tarmac of the main car park. And shoot me if you want, but I bloody love gravel. That crunch underfoot is one of my favourite things in the whole world, seconded only by the crunch under my tyres as my car pulls in. I can’t really say why. That crunchy, cornflake sound just makes me feel as if I am off the beaten track and away from all the concerns that come with being in a town or a city. I’m on the gravel, dude, and life couldn’t be better. Since re-discovering this quiet, tree-lined parking area, my walks are exponentially better. And, no, I’m not telling you where it is. Sod off.

As I walk the lake circuit, I’ve got my earbuds in and I’m listening, listening. What is Ken listening to, the entire population of the lake wonders (as if!). Is it the very latest scientific or political treatise? Is it some in depth analysis of the current state of the Arts?

(Guilty secret incoming.)

Nah, it’s Reacher.

I listen to Reacher books. Not all the time, obviously, but quite a bit. I’ve often got one on the go and, of late, if I’m on a long drive or walking our esteemed lake, I’ll have Jack Reacher in my ears, kicking ass in stereo.

Part of the attraction of my listening to Reacher audiobooks (which I get free from Castlebar Library via Borrow Box) is the person who reads the books. Jeff Harding is the absolute voice of Lee Child’s Reacher books and his rather harsh, uncompromising tone eminently suits the material and, after listening to quite a few, has become like an old friend to me. Jeff imbues Reacher with a voice that is an utterly American blend of capability and wariness, and it brings the character to life in a way that no visual adaptation has come close to doing. Not even that enormous guy on Amazon.

Of course, there’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure. Any pleasure we can extract from the world is okay as long as it’s not hurting anybody or putting on weight. Although, if there was one element of the Reacher audiobooks that is a little guilt inducing, it would be the way that Jeff portrays the females in the Reacher books. Jeff is either an extremely macho person or else he is really good at portraying a really macho person. The ladies in the book suffer a tiny bit from this fact because, as Jeff switches from Reacher’s trademark machismo tones, the ladies all fall into a similar vocal pattern that is slightly prissy, matter of fact, and declamatory. 

In smaller words, all of Reacher’s women sound the same. Similarly, the bad guys and authority figures all sound the same too. They all get a rather weaselly borderline belligerent voice. The overall effect is that, as Reacher traverses the United States and the wider world in search of justice and fair play, it sounds rather like he’s meeting the same people over and over again. Don’t get me wrong, I like all this very much. There is a comfort in knowing that Reacher’s next lady will sound just like his last one and the next bad guy will die making rodent noises, just like the last one did.

Reading back, this has been a rather random trek through weight loss, loose gravel, and voiced anti-heroes and it seems to be of limited value to any one right-thinking person.

What can I tell you? This is my mind.

'Welcome to it.

A New Autumn

“And summer’s lease hath all too short a date...”

In my head, autumn has already begun. 

I know that might be an annoying thing to say. Summer holidays have weeks to go yet and, if you’re in school in England, your holiday has practically only just begun. 

Conventional wisdom would also say that the 1^st of September is as good a time as any to resume calling the world ‘Autumnal’ and, for most of my life, I would have agreed with that. When we were small, autumn started on the night ‘The High Chaparral’ was on the telly and we were sitting on the floor, trying to sellotape wallpaper covers onto our new school books. School was starting again the next day and another supposedly endless summer was sudddenly at an end.

But, as I’ve clocked up a few years, I now tend to think that autumn arrives as soon as the very first signs of it peep through. A leaf or two on the trees turn golden and brittle, the daylight slips a little sooner out of the evening sky. Signs like these speak clearly to me that autumn is now here and, even though it’s only the 10^th of August, summer’s lease has once again prematurely expired.

It’s an age thing, I think. To find Autumn present so very early in the year. But it’s an Irish thing too. The season is historically called 'Lughnasa' and it’s that time when harvesting begins. (I’m a townie, I don’t know actually much about harvesting). And, like I said, the natural signs are there too. The first of the blackberries on the thorny bushes on my back garden have ripened and are now dark and luscious. “Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it.”

I like Autumn. For me, it’s a time for getting things done. Nothing is in the way. No Christmas edge, no summer doldrums. Let’s get it work. But I tend to mourn the passing of summer a little bit too. I’m always left with the feeling that I never even came close to celebrating it enough. I have worked all the way through, as I always do. I have let it sidle past. 

But another part of me knows that I haven’t really done that. For every day of this summer, I have taken a moment and looked around me and acknowledged the full trees, the endless evenings, the kids on the green doing their holiday hurling classes. I may not have rolled around and covered myself in summer, but I have always known it was there. It that sense, I haven’t missed it at all.

One other slightly sad note. I had written somewhere before about how a Chestnut tree that sits across the river from my childhood home was always the first to turn golden at the end of the summer. If I went to Sligo now and looked across the Garavogue, I’m sure that same tree would have the new season written all over it. Every year I noted it. When I moved here to Castlebar, I found a new ‘Early Tree’ right there on The Mall. Another Horse Chestnut. Most years, I would sit on one of the benches in the town green and just note for a moment that the tree had turned and autumn was here once again. This year, the tree is gone. I wrote about the cutting down of a few trees last Christmas, for safety reasons, and, silly me, I never realised that my tree was one of them. I guess I’ll have to find another tree to stare at.

As an antidote to all this morosity, I went for a walk yesterday just after writing the bulk of this thing and found large residues of summer to be still in the air. I guess it’s just one of those times of the year when everything is on the turn. One day one thing, the next day another. Best not to sweat it too much. As my old pal Rod McKuen sang, “And to each season, something is special…”

And anyway, you mustn't pay too much heed to me. I'm a law unto myself. I hope that your own personal summer runs right on up to the middle of September. The weather is usually at its loveliest then anyway. Summer isn’t over yet, for most of us, not even close. As for me, I’ll be just fine, down here in my own new Autumn.

Summer will come again.

With a little luck and with a fair wind.