SWIT’s Autumn Almanac: The Wexford Files.

The big kahuna is on the blower. I’m on sabbatical in the bleary nothingness that is Fethard-on-Sea. Leery lads stagger across the streets, flashing belligerent would you fight me would you fight my brother looks. They don’t care if you have kids, they’ll fight them too. Fetid-on-Sea might be more appropriate*. Who knew you could go so near and yet so far away from civilisation? He knew, he did warn me.

“Look you’ve SFA to do there, the weather is cat-malojan, the summer is a fucking joke,  thank the stars above that I spent most of it in Capri. Get me a feature for next week, I know I said I’d do it but I’ve got other fish to fry.” I’m sure I heard brittle laughter and the clink of glasses as he hung up, not bothering to await my reply. Poor dame. Fuck you Bossman. I wandered down to the local pub, the one with the award-winning food. Guess they give out plaudits in Wexford for stuff that’s hot and on a plate. When I say hot I mean mostly cold.

Later, in my lonely billet I come across an old book of Kinsella poems. It falls open at “Another September”.

“Wakeful moth-wings blunder near a chair
Toss their light shell at the glass and go
To inhabit the living starlight,Stranded hair
Stirs on the still linen. It is as though
The black breathing that billows her sleep, her name,
Drugged under judgement, waned and – bearing daggers
And balances – down the lampless darkness they came,
Moving like women: Justice, Truth, such figures.”

Women and justice, you have to laugh. So it got me thinking, the wine and the house’s benevolent spirits were giving me a cosmic nudge. I’ll just bung a load of songs about September together, piece of piss and eureka! Here’s  our Autumn Almanac. The genesis of greatness is often found in the haphazard and mundane.  Often. There’s no Genesis on the playlist BTW so relax.

September  1st, I drive down to Dollar bay, and sit alone on the beach, watching reckless gulls dive headlong into the foaming brine. The trees on the cliff are already tinged orange and yellow. It strikes me that Autumn is a celebration of death. Slow and beautiful, sure, but death nonetheless. I’m impressed, not for the first time, by my own profundity. I stop thinking then, my mind as empty as IKEA on Christmas Day. I unwrap my meagre lunch of olives and Greek cheese. Feta-on-Sea.

* SWIT would like to point out that the opinions expressed here are entirely the writer’s own and that he is a pretentious misanthrope.