Well. Here we are. November. “Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by …” What? More baking? Christmas banana yuletide logs, anyone? Ugh. We’re all going to overdose on potassium and have a constipated Christmas, in more ways than one. Reminiscing about the heady days of crossing a county border and meeting up to five other households … INSIDE A RESTAURANT.

Much like people look back on say, the swinging 60s, now that we are firmly embedded in the winter calendar months, we are looking back on those hedonistic summer days of traversing the country, small gatherings, barbecues in the sunshine, not hugging anyone, but awkwardly waving at family and friends while standing far apart from each other and musing over glasses of rosé while the world was imploding. The innocent thrill of picking out your first mask. Perhaps one dotted with peony roses now that you know what peony roses are because you had never in your life before looked at so many gardens and blooms and stopped to wonder at the bountiful beauty of nature and … wanting to shove it all where the sun don’t shine. AKA NOVEMBER. Because now all those pretty little flowers are squelching under our winter boots as we pound the pavements wrapped in scarves and hats and gloves and ALL OF THE SOCKS FROM OUR RECENTLY SORTED SOCK DRAWER. Because we are still here. Still on hold. Still in the ongoing unknown.

The weight of months of uncertainty and worry about family and friends and jobs and the enforced restrictions on our own personal agency is a heavy price to pay and unites us all in its oppressing pervasiveness. But the other, the other I need to gravitate to much much more than the lingering in the neverending neverending, is the shared sense of how mad this all is. And how much we all need to escape. Sure we can’t actually escape on holiday and sip a cosmo by the pool, but we can escape through humour and this is the one-way ticket I need for my own soul and sanity right now. Because if we can’t laugh, we will cry, and as my good friend, a fellow actress, always says: “Darling, I only like crying when I’m bloody getting paid for it”.

Never in our lives have we been so consumed with weather watching as we are now. We thought we Irish were already obsessed with weather? Well, get ready for PhD levels of meteorological data cross-examining. And never before have I put so much thought into my Winter Coat. Because this winter, my Winter Coat needs to be The Winter Coat To End All Winter Coats. I need a padded coat to my ankles, which is waterproof, has a hood, can hold a three-course meal in the pockets for afternoons in the park with the kids, can hug me when no one else will, matches my mask, matches my expectations of never feeling the cold and you know, makes me look cute.

For if we are still allowed meet a friend for a meal, sitting outdoors in some sideways rain horsing a curry into ourselves, Me, My Coat and I will be there. Because we will need to sit and talk and laugh and have therapy sessions about retrospective home-schooling PTSD (me) and the fact that we had to leave the house because the husband is broadcasting rugby analysis from The Bunkbed Studio in the son’s room (me) and we all needed to be quiet and it was really hard to resist the urge to shout “Brian! Put your socks and jocks in the laundry basket please!” mid-transmission (also me) and the fact that we will miss being tipsy in a sparkly dress at 2am looking for burgers on Saturday nights throughout December.

And we miss our parents and we miss the craic and the planning and this is hard. It is so hard. But we will laugh. Because we have to. Because we need to. Happy November everyone. When you can.