Ignorance in some of its costumes can be a holiday killer, but its value as a survival mechanism in that twilight zone which is the silly season, is often overlooked.
For most of us, life slows a little at this time, even if we are not on holiday, and we may have more time to reflect or respond slack-jawed to things around us.
Without a finely honed ignorance mechanism we might find it hard to cope with what we find.
It was this time of year when a man I thought was mostly reasonable made the serious pronouncement vehicles towing caravans or trailers should only be allowed on the road between 6am and 9am.
There was a glint in his eye which made me feel he would not be sympathetic if I raised the plight of people who might have journeys lasting longer than three hours.
Instead, I suggested armed guards could be stationed at seemly intervals along all roads to ensure nobody broke the caravan/trailer time limit.
When he nodded enthusiastically at that, I knew he had entered that summer holiday zone where rational thinking is ignored .
His ignorance is not a solitary affair.
We ignore our bank balances as they plunge below the poverty line.
We know we should not be ignoring the world financial crisis, but since we have no hope of understanding it , what choice is there?
We don't want to spoil summer wondering where governments find big money to bail things out when they have been pleading poverty for years, or what that will mean for taxpayers worldwide in the years to come.
Many of us ignore our normal reserve about showing large amounts of pasty flesh.
We ignore the certainty that this year the large amount of pasty flesh is larger than it was last holiday season.
We look at our loved ones and ignore the possibility the large amount of their pasty flesh on show is larger than last holidays' too.
We don't want to think it might be evidence of that awful contagious flesh-increasing disease, the obesity epidemic.
We ignore our resolve to increase our weekly tally of alcohol-free days. The maths is too hard in the holiday season.
Nobody can tell where one week ends and another begins. We are not even sure what year it is yet.
Sometimes we foolishly forget to be ignorant.
We may have successfully ignored romance for who knows how long, but we have read enough trashy novels to believe summer can change everything.
In a tender moment, when he has a far away look on his face, I rashly ask him what he's thinking about.
The wheelbarrow section of a hardware store in Invercargill was not the answer I sought (even though I appreciated his concern about the state of my model which has seen better days).
I consider telling him that Invercargill is not the home of the world's fastest wheelbarrow or even William Carlos Williams, but given his penchant for romance I realise talk of poetry may be pointless.
I ignore my disappointment.
Arriving sons ignore my lack of enthusiasm for housing another round of their excess belongings, as they try not to trip over the Swiss ball, piles of unclaimed clothing, a motley collection of old sports gear, an unplugged computer monitor, a clapped-out turntable, a never-used chair and a 60kg punch-bag, to deliver a no longer loved double bed.
They try to ignore reference to my ribs' recent close encounter with the stairs while I ignore the possibility they are already sussing out suitable rest homes for me even though I'm still in my early 50s.
After they have gone, sitting in the scorching heat to top and tail the few gooseberries and blackcurrants surviving in my guerrilla war of weeds, I ignore my stupidity at picking the fruit in to the same container when I want to cook them separately.
My mind wanders during this chore.
I mostly succeed in ignoring stabs of sadness at the tragedies of families whose members have died or been injured during holiday incidents featured in the news, some of them apparently involving ignorance of rules of one sort or another.
I do this because true empathy is impossible.
I cannot ignore the fact my sons and siblings are still alive.
I guiltily try to ignore my gratitude for this.
But later, when I idly scan the death notices to find someone I wish I'd known better has died too early, I realise my ignorance has its limits.
I cannot close the newspaper and pretend I did not see it.
Death, that inevitable partner to life, has gate-crashed the new year for people I know and care about, stopping the silly season in its tracks.
Ignorance might be bliss, but it is no longer possible.
Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
