Panto and Santa tickets on sale before we’ve even managed to put away the summer picnic basket

I’VE had a wildly unproductive week. That wouldn’t be so bad except that I had seriously high hopes that it would be a ‘knock it out of the park’ sort of week. For the last fortnight of August I was itching to get back to a routine, get back to the desk properly, sort stuff, restore order, tidy up and put everything back in its box etc. When school started, I said, that’s when I’ll swing into action. When the temperature drops, there’ll definitely be more law and order around here. And so on.

Well what’s that Taylor Swift said? ‘It’s me, it’s me, I’m the problem it’s me.’ Turns out I’m the one getting in my way with my million and one excuses. I convinced myself that it was the blood moon last week that was throwing me (that bought me a few days), but this week will be different, and at least I’m making lists, even if I’m losing them.

I was starting to feel a bit focused, training my brain to appreciate that there’s still a whole third of 2026 left in the can, and with it a world of possibilities, until I started getting bombarded with Christmas emails, mainly messages telling me that tickets are available now for this Santa experience and the other one, but that I need to be quick as they won’t be there for long.

Ah stop! I haven’t even properly emptied the picnic basket yet. And now of course I’m all over the place wondering if we need to lock in a date, or just start the conversation on the family WhatsApp to find a date to suit everyone (that usually takes a full three months). Now that I think of it I saw an email at the start of summer reminding me to book tickets to the panto. Am I too late for that too? Don’t even answer that.

I must have ticked another box somewhere along the line because I’m also getting messages encouraging me to book a visit to a pumpkin patch some place in Kerry. At least that’s only a month away I suppose, not that we’ll be going. We’d probably end up fighting over what one to get – it’s hard enough trying keep the peace when we’re picking the Christmas tree. I couldn’t cope with the pressure. Besides, there’s plenty of weeds in the garden if anyone  has an urge to pick something anytime soon.

As I’m on a bit of a rant something else that was bugging me during the week were all these back-to-school posts on social media lamenting how one day your child is in junior infants and in a blink of an eye they’re in leaving cert and then they’re … gone. Forever. Never to return. Ever. I had actually been feeling quite grateful that in the overall scheme of things I got lucky enough to have a sidekick who I think absolutely rocks (of course I’m biased) and who is healthy and able for school. I never thought about the fact that there’s only ‘x’ number of summers left with her before she leaves. Forever.

Five million posts later (all to the tune of Abba’s Slipping through my Fingers), I felt like taking to the bed in a fit of depression. Actually that was probably another reason why I got nothing done and more importantly another reason to stay off head-melting social media.

What about all that rain? I had myself fully convinced that the wet and mucky weather would never return, that we now had an entirely Mediterranean climate. And when it did I was completely shocked – but totally relieved I was only at an U.10 football blitz and not Electric Picnic. I’m definitely not the type that could cope with that level of muck. Having said that I’m looking forward to making my maiden voyage to the All-Ireland Ploughing Championships in Offaly later this month.

Last year I said we’d go and I reneged at the last minute, and I’ve been reminded of it many, many times since by the youngest member of the family. Apparently it’s the place to go to buy GAA jerseys (who’d have thought?), while I’m hoping for a free biro or two.

My dad used to go every year and the excitement waking up the morning after he got back was up there, if not better, than Christmas morning. It was anyone’s guess what he’d have brought us. One year he got all six of us these sheepskin jackets (himself and my mother included). Now, in this ‘trad wife’ era it might have worked but we’d have looked like some weird cult if we ventured out  in them – which we never did.

If Vinted was a thing, they’d have gone straight up! Speaking of which I need to get myself a pair of wellingtons and a waterproof coat for my ploughing debut. And if anyone has any advice on how to best navigate the event, send them on here.

In the meantime I need to catch up on Traitors Ireland on playback (I have been saving it to savour it) and my book ‘When the Cranes fly South’ (so good, I totally recommend but have the tissues on standby) – there’s plenty of time to tackle the ‘to do’ list later.