Esther McCarthy: Making hay while the sun shines — five happy moments from this week

Esther McCarthy: Joy is in the air and I think the sun is to blame

There is something about a stretch of sunshine that turns even the most cynical and hormonal among us into an optimist.

Maybe it’s because I’m on my phone less, but things feel a bit lighter. You find yourself capable of being delighted by things that would ordinarily barely register — a celeb wedding, the majesty of a poppy, or a scumbag’s questionable fashion choices.

So, in the spirit of making hay while the sun (still) shines, here are five things that made me happy this week.

Hay day

Speaking of making hay, I drove past two hay bales made into a straw bride and groom on the side of the road near a farmhouse. They were at least 10 feet tall, complete with googly eyes, a giant veil, and a bow tie, and it just made my day.

Spice up your life

Another wedding. The Spice Girl who once vowed she’d never get married just tied the knot with an Australian hunk.

Mel C, you sly dog. He’s a HOTTIE. She was always my favourite Spice Girl, and Mel B, Geri Horner, and Emma Bunton all turned out for the big day.

Victoria couldn’t make it, she was in America for the World Cup. She probably missed her flight because she fell asleep during Justin Bieber’s part of the 16-hour halftime show. But, in fairness to her now, she designed Sporty’s dress as a gift and embroidered “Sydney” and “7.6.2026” into it, because I guess nothing says, “sorry, I can’t be there on your special day”, like commemorative stitching.

Photo fail

In the same month Donald Trump called Spain a “wasted cause” at the Nato summit in Ankara, he had to trundle out and hand their footballers the World Cup. Ha ha. Then, like the deluded auntie who’s convinced she belongs in every bridal party photo, he lingered on the podium, cranking the cringe up to 90 as he tried to horn his way into the team photo. Boos rang out from parts of the crowd. What a numpty.

Arrested development

Andrew and Tristan Tate were arrested in Miami on a sealed warrant after British authorities filed 38 new charges against the pair. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the fashion police who slapped the cuffs on, but the US Marshals. Andrew minced out in a purple polyester shirt that looked like the wrapper off a Cadbury’s caramel-and- hazelnut, fumbling the buttons halfway up before apparently deciding the top four were optional. But maybe his hand-eye dexterity is as stunted as his emotional intelligence, so we shouldn’t judge. Buttons are hard.

He’d paired this with capri trousers so tight and shiny they could only have come from the same bargain bin in the Moderne on St Patrick Street I raided in my size-10 days. Apparently socks are a no-no for misogynist morons these days, but not Ali G-style neck bling. The overall effect was a rather confusing camp cruise-ship dance instructor — the one all the 70-year-olds fight over at the afternoon cha-cha. This is the man selling “alpha” masculinity to teenage boys? Mother of God. An orange prison jumpsuit can only be a sartorial step up, boys, honestly.

Flower power

As if I needed any further proof that I am now middle-aged, the biggest joy of late has come from a couple of packets of seeds. I pulled all the vinca that had taken over a large flower bed and threw down wildflower seeds. Oh, the thrill of watching them emerge: poppies, oxeye daisies, corn marigolds, corn pansies, corncockle (hmm, lots of corns), hawksbeard, cranesbill, morning glory, borage, feverfew, nasturtiums, fennel, one lone clinging sweet pea, Queen Anne’s lace and rock roses. I’ve also taken to splitting store-bought basil and making several plants from each one, plonking them into old plum tomato cans, disposable coffee cups and ice cream tubs. Ooh, and I keep my eggshells and banana peels to make fertiliser for when I’m repotting...

My God, what has become of me?

But I remember my mam tinkering around the garden: rhubarb, blackcurrant bushes, cursing at the cat if it did its business in her geranium patch. I’m happy to take up the mantle — and the spade.

And maybe that’s the real theme of the week: everything seems to be blooming where you least expect it. In a wildflower patch gone rogue. In the sight of a giant bale bride, googly eyes and all. Silly and daft and joyful. The occasional glimpse of justice prevailing. I’ll take them all while the sun’s out.