Distract yourself is the only unsolicited advice I have to offer at the moment. Distract yourself from the rising cases and waning vaccines and scarcity of ICU beds.
Distract yourself from the news of Austria’s lockdown for the unvaccinated and from the quiet murmurs of some people who say they’d be happy for the same type of thing to be introduced here.
Distract yourself from impending restrictions and the new language for lockdowns and the looming spectre of a less meaningful Christmas. Distract yourself from the sudden official sanction of antigen tests after months warning us not to use them, advice many of us sensibly ignored.
Our second vaccine shots were jubilant jabs, administered with an encouraging smile. What they didn't say: 'You can still get it. You can still transmit it. Be careful, now. By winter it will be rampant.' Or maybe I just chose to miss the memo
I need some distraction. I keep thinking back to when I got my second vaccine. “Be free,” they said. “Go live your life,” they said. These were jubilant jabs administered with an encouraging smile. There was a sense of quiet celebration in the clinic, a sense that this was the end, or a sort of beginning of the ending.
What they didn’t say: “You can still get it. You can still transmit it. Be careful, now. Don’t go mad, now. It’s a three-shot vaccine. By winter it will be rampant.” Healthcare workers, I understand, were told a version of this. And there was a cautionary note in the leaflets. Maybe I just chose to miss the memo.
So it’s time now for the Great Distraction. That’s what this nondoctor has ordered. In recent years November has evolved into a month, not unlike Lent, of giving up in advance of all the festive excess, but this is no time for abstention. Or self-flagellation.
Distract yourself. Put the Christmas decorations up early. Eat more sweets. Take a duvet day or three. Dust down the Scrabble board and make elegant words with friends. Distract yourself with the glorious musical The Book of Mormon, which is on in Dublin at the moment.
And when you emerge from the theatre, grinning stupidly, distract yourself with the real-life Mormons waiting there to try to convert you to Mormonism. And laugh out loud because this is the most meta thing that’s happened since Mark Zuckerberg completely ruined that word.
Distract yourself, go on, with Paul Mescal all dressed up in a tux, linking arms with the singer Phoebe Bridgers. And if that feels too faraway I have another nascent love story here, a noncelebrity one. You can share it if you like
Distract yourself with the words in a great book. Read Claire Keegan’s powerful masterpiece Small Things Like These and swoon at the prose and then buy several copies to give as a bleak, yet hopeful, November gift to people you love. Distract yourself with Taylor Swift’s 10-minute version of All Too Well and the short film that accompanies one of the best break-up songs that’s ever been written. Taylor Swift, a pandemic saviour in red lipstick, is the booster shot some of us didn’t know we needed. It’s Swift, and joy-filled, a jab that never wanes.
And in the absence of actual boosters, distract yourself with shots of tequila. Or the most extravagant mocktail you can imagine. But mostly tequila. I had a shot of tequila on my recent trip to London because, like all the mountains I will never climb, it was there, lined up like a see-through promise on a bar. Then, back in Dublin, when I met a friend outside a docklands hotel, I ordered shots again. Guaranteed distraction. With added salt and lemon.
Distract yourself, go on, with a huge bunch of flowers in your good vase and with buying that dress you spotted online and with the sweet beginning of somebody else’s love story. With Normal People’s Paul Mescal all dressed up in a tux, linking arms with the singer Phoebe Bridgers. And if that feels too faraway I have another nascent love story here, a noncelebrity one. You can share it if you like.
It’s the highly distracting ballad of A and D. They were also drinking outside the docklands hotel, giant fishbowls of gins and tonics. The first thing I noticed were A’s black docs with red flowers embroidered up the ankle. The footwear of a cool girl in her 20s. And then the man called D, dark and handsome, sitting opposite her, doe-eyed. We got to talking. I blame the tequila.
'It's our first date,' A said, all giddy as D smiled. They met on Snapchat. She's a London girl and he's a Mullingar boy. 'Have you told her about Bressie and Niall Horan and Joe Dolan?' I checked. He had of course
“It’s our first date,” A said, all giddy as D smiled. They met on Snapchat. They had been talking and exchanging messages for three months. She’s a London girl and he’s a Mullingar boy. “Have you told her about Bressie and Niall Horan and Joe Dolan?” I checked. He had of course.
A flew into Dublin that day to meet D for the first time. D said he felt kind of anxious and shy but as soon as they hugged he knew everything would be all right.
Everything was all right. A few days later A sent me a video montage of their weekend together via Instagram. There they are. Strolling through Epic, the emigration museum. Snuggling up at their airport hotel. Clinking glasses over dinner. Laughing on the bus. Drawing love hearts on a Dublin beach. Dancing slowly at sunset on the strand. Hugging goodbye at the airport.
They have their next weekend in London planned. And after that a trip to Iceland. They said I can make a speech at the wedding. So I'm writing it now. Another beautiful distraction. I just can't get enough.
roisin@irishtimes.com