the blizzard that wasn't

Wandered into the vegetablerie on Main Street.
"Set em up there barkeep. A few of your finest oranges and apples. And some of those professional hen eggs I've heard so much about. You know. Where the hens are on full union rates, cluck off at three in the afternoon and get a full month's holiday in August plus paid sick leave. I want eggs that have not been produced in a sweat shop, the gugs the European Union positively forbids you to describe as free range."
With a bemused expression the proprietor furnishes the requested items.
She then asks me have I heard about the blizzard which is forecast to hit Ireland tonight.
Her question produces a tide of emotion in me that is difficult to control.
"This country has gone mad," I exclaim. "Blizzard my Aunt Fanny. You know the shops up the road have sold out of bread and milk. The great Paddy Whacks don't believe in God but if RTE, Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and the Meteorological Service try to fool them into believing in climate change by claiming the worst blizzard in history is coming, the proles just lap it up. It's  time to call the feds Ma Kettle and stock up on a year's supply of bread and milk. These people are crazy I tells ya. They literally cannot and will not think for themselves. Blizzard indeed. I doubt it will even snow."
So saying I walked out into the street, a strangely mythic figure clutching apples, oranges and hen eggs but with no bread and milk nor the prospect of same.