Politics and the courts, the normal staple of papers, radio and TV bulletins, go into a form of hibernation and something else has to fill the vacuum. Often these can be offbeat or less serious stories. To put it more bluntly, material which might be spiked on a busier news day is instead given prominence beyond what might be expected. As an avid consumer of new media, I’ve seen several yarns in the past few weeks which undoubtedly fall into the category of silly season stories. Which started me thinking about whether silly season is relevant to this column which is, I suppose, a form of journalism (in the very broadest and loosest definition of the skill). My first conclusion was that what I do is already a year-round celebration of silly season. Much like global warming, I have upended the traditional seasons to ensure that the frivolous and nonsensical is presented as newsworthy 52 weeks of the year. To put it more plainly, I’m not sure that I can get any sillier than I already am. But then I considered the issue more deeply. Would it be useful or wise to collect some of the scraps from my mind which are not complete enough to warrant columns on their own merit and present them as ‘Tales from Silly Season?’ No, it would not be remotely useful or wise. What the heck, let’s do it anyway. STORMONT DOORS: I’ve spent a lot of time this year at Stormont. I’ve also spent a lot of time watching the complete series of ‘Star Wars’ movies with my son. I am impressed by the power of the Jedis, particularly little Yoda and his ability to move objects with his mind. At Stormont, all of the fancy doors in the building are automated so they magically swing open when you approach. For some time, I have developed the habit of holding my arm outstretched with my fingers pointed towards the door, perfecting my timing so that it opens at the exact moment of my command. Usually I am humming Darth Vader’s theme music when I am doing this. It is the day of a big political story and I am among a group of journalists walking towards the Great Hall to cover a press conference. As we approach a door in the long corridor, without thinking, my arm stretches out towards it. ‘What are you doing?’ one of my colleagues inquires. ‘Nothing,’ I reply brusquely. ‘Nothing at all.’ A1 MONEY GRAB: I live close to the A1, one of the busiest and most dangerous roads in Northern Ireland. I am always vigilant behind the wheel, but perhaps adopt an extra measure of care on this carriageway. It is Saturday evening and I am navigating the Sprucefield roundabout on my way home from Belfast. My son is in the passenger seat. As we pull onto the A1, I notice that there are two cars to the left. One is parked on the hard shoulder. The second is parked half on the hard shoulder but with its rear protruding onto the main road. Several cars are having to take evasive action to go around the prone vehicle. I apply pressure on the brakes as I assume there has been an accident. Then I see something else. There are three people on the road, darting between the cars and waving their arms wildly. As I slow to a crawl, I notice that there is money strewn across the surface, several notes are stuck to the tar or are fluttering in the breeze. I know not how the money has ended up on the road, but these people are prepared to risk their lives to retrieve/obtain it. I drive on, a £20 note disappears under my front right tyre. SUNGLASSES: I have the unrealistic expectation that a pair of sunglasses (much like a pet dog) should be for life. Therefore, it agitates me when I regularly lose or break them. I am going on holiday soon and am again without sunglasses. I haven’t had a pair for about two months. I have looked at several in shops but have resisted buying because I’ve been cowed by the ridiculous prices. It seems to have gone out of control. If I am going to spend £50 on a pair of sunglasses, I reasonably would expect them to enable me to emit rays of solar energy from my eyes. I am at a shopping centre with my wife. I tell her I am going off to Primark to look for sunglasses. She knows me well and cautions me about buying the right pair. Don’t get something ridiculously expensive, but don’t get something too cheap either because they may not offer UV protection. I nod along. Five minutes later I phone to tell her that I am all kitted out for holiday. ‘Did you get sunglasses?’ she asks. ‘Yes.’ ‘Are they good ones?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘How much were they?’ ‘£1.’ THE SPATCHCOCK CHICKEN: I warm the oven to 180 degrees. I have a lot to do. My wife will be home in just over an hour and I want to cook dinner, cut the grass, strim the lawn edges and hang the washing on the line before she gets here. To assist with my timings, I have gone to the trouble of spatchcocking a chicken so that it will cook more quickly, flattening down the carcass and cutting out the backbone. I go to the other tasks, rushing around the lawn and hanging the clothes outside. I am just finishing up as my wife calls to tell me she will be home in 10 minutes. I tell her that dinner will be on the table. I go into the kitchen. I see that I have forgotten to put the chicken in the oven.