In my corner of south-eastern Ireland, even a comparatively modest heatwave has been taking its toll. “We’re just not made for this weather,” said the woman at the petrol station. “It has to end soon.” And, indeed, it did, the rain spilling down that very evening. But though it brought relief to our yellowed fields and gardens, we didn’t need the downpour to grant us a return of sanity – because, unlike the UK, we hadn’t lost our marbles in the first place.
It’s a strange thing to look at your nearest neighbour, until a few weeks ago your home, and wonder if it’s losing it. To look at its leaders and movers and shakers and think: “Are they high?” Last week’s corker: stockpiling food on the outside chance that the catastrophically hobbled Brexit talks do not suddenly surge forwards and yield a happy ending. I’ve found myself humming The Quartermaster’s Song (“There are Mice, mice, mice/ Running through the rice, at the Quartermaster’s store”) as I think of Dominic Raab counting in the boxes of hardtack and pemmican, growing ever more furious as the supermarket top brass ring to tell him they haven’t any shelf space left.
In all this disarray, a truly delightful moment. Eastenders residents are about to see the return of the beloved Dr Legg
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