Choose Ireland.
Choose driving rain and grim, grim days.
Choose cold turkey (raw in fact) brought about by wind-induced power cuts.
Choose watching the years fly past without so much as fifteen minutes of
consecutive sunshine to banish the sickly pallor.
Choose no snow. Ever.
Choose only the worst kind of wet, oily slush.
Choose hurricane force winds which arrive with monotonous regularity to drive people indoors, knock trees and strip slates off roofs.
Choose nine months of winter and three months of early spring.
Choose January. Choose heavy colds brought about by waiting in the perpetual rain for public transport that never comes.
Choose wintry shards of sunshine which last just long enough to convince you that the umbrella is unnecessary.
Choose absolutely savage downpours which immediately follow the wintry sun shards. Choose the smell of wet wool in overcrowded pubs.
Choose being driven from the pub into the sleet by dour barmen shouting: Have yis no homes to go to?
Choose children coughing in your face, passing on their weather-related illnesses.
Choose more colds. And coughs. And running noses and streaming eyes.
Choose the central heating breaking down and the chimney going on fire.
Choose burst water mains and flooded flats.
Choose winter. Choose black ice and white ice. Equally slippy. Born slippy even.
Choose biting easterly winds. Painful hailstones.
Choose no atmospheric frost. Only bleak and dreary drizzle.
Choose frost. Choose leaking shoes and lost hats.
Choose rain. And more rain. And still more rain.
Choose Ireland.

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