I have rhapsodised before about how we let Daughter Number Four go out to play with her friends in the local park. And it has been wonderful: until autumn arrived with a renewed commitment to being autumnal.
Daughter Number Four, along with a lot of children her age, seems to regard driving rain and gusting wind as little more than an excuse by parents for killing fun.
When we put it to her that going outside would make her dripping wet within a matter of seconds, she said she didn’t mind. When we said that riding a bicycle in strong winds is highly dangerous, that she could be blown in front of a car, she paused for a moment, then simply declared: that won’t happen.
So far, there have been two miserable weekend days when she has been stuck inside, made even more miserable by her regularly asking the time and when the rain will stop: because, of course, we’ve told her to wait for an hour or so. The weather might have improved by then. When that doesn’t happen, there can be accusatory tears: like we’re conspiring with the weather to keep her trapped in the house.
But the second day this happened was far worse than the first. On this day, the wind was so intense that it knocked out the power supply in some parts of our area. We didn’t lose our electricity, but we did experience something equally calamitous: we suddenly had no internet. No online games. No streaming services.
Yes, we turned it off and on again. But the light on the box kept flashing. Then stopped flashing and claimed the internet was back even though we couldn’t connect to anything.
This has happened to us before. And even though people have laughed in my face for saying it, even though there may be significant scientific evidence to the contrary, I’m still convinced that when it rains, the internet can go wonky.
Of course, that wasn’t our primary concern on this day: it was more about how our child would react to living in a world suddenly robbed of interconnectivity. Would she throw herself on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably? Would she start yelling: what am I going to do now? It felt, suddenly, like a test of her ability to cope with change; and an unbidden judgment on our poor parenting.
It’s starting to feel like events in different parts of the world will eventually connect up
I’m happy to report that none of that happened. She did ask for suggestions as to what she should do, and was happy to accept a trip with me to Tesco to collect the shopping. As long as I bought her an ice cream.
On the way there, she chatted away happily, and I tried to think of a problem more first-world than the temporary loss of the internet. It was only a few days after the murder of Charlie Kirk, and venom was spewing everywhere.
The day before, more than 100,000 people had marched in London seeking to “unite the kingdom”. A Russian drone had entered Romanian airspace. Israel had flattened 30 buildings in Gaza, killing 13 people.
We drove past Irish flags attached to lamp-posts: placed there not as an expression of patriotism, but as a threat.
It’s become increasingly difficult to metabolise the news every day. It’s starting to feel like events in different parts of the world will eventually connect up, hurtling us towards calamity. I know people who attempt to ignore the news completely, or restrict themselves to how often they check it. Nowadays, it’s close to impossible to feel optimism.
Instead, there’s dread. Even a bit of guilt. All our trivial concerns. Yet, oddly, you could argue that there is a glimmer of hope in this: people can still lead humdrum lives in a place that’s largely safe and largely comfortable. It is what most of our fellow humans would like to have; and becoming increasingly precious.
