There are a few things in this world that are totally unacceptable for any Irish person to admit to. For example, if a close friend were to ever tell me that they've never had a Tayto sambo, I would label them as a heathen. Upon hearing a loved one confess to not knowing who Jedward are, I'd probably have them medically checked. Hell, I daresay even if my own mother were to tell me that she hated Father Ted, I think I’d be obliged to oust her from the family. These thoughts are border line unpatriotic, and are part of a longer list of things that Irish people are just not allowed to think or do. Other deeds on this roll-call of dishonour include not knowing the lyrics to Fields of Athenry (and screaming then when presented with the opportunity while drunk), refusing a 99 when temperatures hit anything over 13 degrees and, unfortunately for me, disliking St. Patrick’s Day. 

I know he’s our patron saint and everything, and fair play to him for that, but by God I wish Paddy’s Day just wasn’t a thing. There are enough anti-climactic celebrations throughout the year, occasions that look so promising but always result in disappointment. Just as you’re about to get over how much of a fat, let down your Halloween was, New Year's rolls around to remind you not to bother going out on big occasions. You’re only over the dejection of those plans when suddenly you find yourself roped into St. Patrick’s Day commitments, ones that never turn out as good as they sound in theory. In my teenage years, I’ve made an effort to make each Paddy’s Day into a memorable one. I did the underage field sesh (once only, and it was so grim I’ve blocked out all memory of it). I’ve tried hitting the toon the past two years and failed miserably (shout out to the Ivy House and their delightful bouncers). Maybe I’ve just been unlucky, but past experiences have proved that the 17th of March is the absolute worst.

However, for the first time since I was under the age of 11, I actually found the day enjoyable this year, something I certainly was not expecting given the whole isolation thing we have going on. It started out as a normal day of trying not to contract the coronavirus. I got up, showered, watched some netflix, stared into the abyss for 45 minutes. You know, the usual. Sometime mid-afternoon, my mam suggested we go for a walk on the beach. As all our schedules have been a hell of a lot freer the past week, myself, my dad and brother welcomed the opportunity to have something to do. 

Truth be told, I am rather apprehensive of contracting this virus. Not for my own sake (I’m a unit), but I’m afraid of passing it on to a family member or someone in work who could be seriously affected by it. For that reason, I’m taking the whole staying-at- home-thing pretty seriously. So when we pulled up to Dollymount and I saw roughly half the population of North Dublin traipsing along the beach, I began to feel pretty anxious. But I had really hyped my dog up for this beach stroll in the car on the way, and she was only buzzing to be out in the open air, so I sucked it up. And after a while, the initial feelings of worry started to melt away. I stopped thinking about standing two metres away from everyone, or the fact that if Simon Harris saw the number of people on the beach he’d go into cardiac arrest. The four of us even managed a whole hour and a bit of conversation without someone saying the phrase “Covid-19”. Miraculous, I know. For a few moments, it was as though life was normal again, and it felt so, so lovely.

It wasn’t that long before we headed home, back into isolation. The rest of the day was as uneventful as all the others have been for the past week. We watched the news, I fell asleep on the couch. Standard. Yet, despite everything, it was such a good day. I daresay my favourite St. Patrick’s Day of all time.

Since starting college, I have been graced with a plethora of good times. However, between juggling a degree, a job, family, friends, the session (all the important things in life), I never realised how little time I’ve actually had with just myself over the past few months. Before Tuesday, I can’t remember the last time I’ve had the time (or cop-on) to fall into bed at night and think to myself how lucky I am to have lived the day I did. While there are a lot of things to be angry about right in the world, this is not one of them. 

After spending some time over the past few days in my own company, I realised that I am a person who thinks in endings. I always read the last page of books before the first. I adore hearing spoilers of movies I know full-well that I will get around to watching because I just can’t wait to hear how the story ends. Even sitting down to write this piece, I knew exactly how it would end before figuring out it’s beginning. Thinking in endings provides an amount of certainty that I always have and always will crave. Not knowing how or when this shitshow that is the coronavirus will end is the worst part of it all for me. The idea of isolation only starts to become unbearable when I think about the fact there is no scheduled end date. 

Nobody on this planet knows for sure what the future holds in store and when it will arrive. This is a fact I know I am not alone in finding hard to accept but have no choice but to. In the meantime all there is to do is mind ourselves and each other, hope for some good days and appreciate when they come. Oh, and wash our hands, obvo!!!

To all final year students, I’m sorry your time in college came to such an abrupt end. You deserved more good days in DCU than the universe gave you, but I’m sure you’ll be repaid them once social distancing has become a thing of the past. To the rest of my DCU comrades, I look forward to seeing you in September. But, until then: stay classy, stay sanitized, and please, stay in your gaff.  

BY: Sarah Mc Guiness