Bloddie would not be pleased.

So. You may have noticed that I like the natural world, and that I'm particularly fond of nasturtiums. The first thing I did in our nice new house was to plant nasturtium seeds in window boxes and set them out in the sun. We also planted squash, and were left no option but to grow them on the inside – in our bedroom. They're doing nicely, thanks.

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But I digress. The Editor was over recently, and much to my surprise, stuck his head out the window approvingly and said, 'Hey. Nasturtiums!'

He may have  gained a point for that.

The other day, the Bearded One and I were coming home in the sunshine and spotted a great, fat pigeon flapping in the windowboxes. I'd seen a magpie at the same game that morning. 'They'd better not be eating my flowers,' thinks me. 'There'll be slaps.'

No, stupid. They were eating these:

They have now been summarily re-housed across from the grounds of a local mental asylum. Bill Oddie would not approve. Ignorance followed by brute relocation of small creatures for my own human gains. Bwahaha.

There's one for every cannonball

Sometimes, it's all Nu Dublin; Chinese howeyehs having a laugh on the Luas in from Tallaght, Nigerian fellas arguing about the quality of their rows outside the barber shop, picking up some Polish ricotta with your Irish Times of a Saturday morning.

Other times, it's just Dublin, where you spot a hooker from your neighbourhood as she walks along the quays. This evening, she stopped outside the Franciscan church, blessed herself, took a miraculous medal on a piece of string out of her pocket and slipped it over her head. As she went in, a short, tubby man with a rope around his waist turned and smiled.

She walked into the pews and the berobed lot went about their business. 

I headed home and saw a pair of swans with seven signets land in the Liffey.

Get out your yardsticks – or is that metresticks?

I've been back for two months now, and already I've enjoyed two rounds of a baffling local sport. It's best played loudly and in all-Irish company. The rules of the game are unknown by all and stand to change at any time depending on the players and mood of the group.

It's called 'How Irish Are You?'

I already know that I am never to be the victor in a match of HIAY, and I accept that in good grace. My nationality is not a relative value: I have two, and I don't define either of them in terms of the opinions of my fellow citizens. Legally, culturally and in blood, I am American and I am Irish. Irish and American. Or, more specifically, if we must, Irish and Irish-American. I don't have a lot of trouble understanding this, but the Irish of no other nationality often do.

I describe myself as Irish or as American as it suits me. I can vote in two countries and work in twenty-eight. I always stand in the short queue at the airport, I travel on a neutral passport past smiling border guards and can be repatriated by a hated superpower should their city burn down tomorrow.

But these are rarely the factors at play in a match of HIAY; the scores are older, less relevant and more divisive. HIAY offers a glimpse at how the Irish view themselves, earning points as they go. Catholic or Protestant? Irish-speaker or just an cúpla focal? UCD or TCD? Northsider? Southsider? Dubliner? Down the country? The Rebel County? The West? Hurling or rugby? Farmer or banker? Traveller? 

As a lifelong participant in HIAY and now permanent resident, I might suggest that we update the criteria to reflect the new players. White? Black? Asian? Mixed race? English-speaker? European? Born here? Born again? Buddhist? Asylum seeker? Refugee status?

I'll lose all the same – to the four-year-old Chinese girl toddling into Scoil Lorcáin. I hear they have quite the waiting list. 

A four-year-old Irish girl, so – no?

It's rather important to get out of the house.

  

Yes, I know you knew that already, but you may not know that it's really, really important if you've just started working from home and the paaardner works around the corner. It can all get a bit homey, and not in the fresh laundry on the line, feet up on the sofa, here'syourmartinidear, hilloveIboughtyouaMagnum sort of way, but in the killmeit'sChristmasandIhaven'tseenanyoneI'mnotrelatedtoinfivedays way.

So, now that I'm down a daily six-mile return cycle and the camaraderie of Curly and my fellow workers, I've been cycling everywhere that needs going to, taking meetings for work and meeting friends for pints and cake after hours. But lunches have been spent power-walking around the neighb wearing some spectacularly ugly shoes. I can't run, because I have a kneecap that doesn't like where God chose to put it in His infinite wisdom, and so takes every opportunity to go visiting around the inside of my shin. So power-walking it is.

More to the point, as this is all achingly bougy, the neighbourhood is fantastic. Ours is a beautiful street covered in flowerboxes and a nice mix of Dubs, Nice Young Couples, immigrants and foreign students. Somehow, you know you're in a good part of town when there are lots of French women around. They have standards, you know? We're also near the mental asylum, so there are a good few middle-aged transvestite drug users, edgy-looking young men and the odd young woman chatting to herself who come and go as day patients. Helps to keep you on your toes.

There's all sorts of good things to do and see, arthouse cinema, foodie shops, nice little restaurants and the biggest park in Europe right up the road. All this a few blocks from the river and with views of the mountains to boot. The mountains are a new thing for me, as Dublin was always all about the sea for me.

We may not have seals, but we do have a great fish joint, and cheap!

All in all, I'll take it, this neighbourhood.

London . . . Ontario?

So, all is well. I'm busy, working, enjoying the new house, beginning to potter and shoot in the neighbourhood. It's all coming together.

And then I got accepted to my degree.

Good news? Yes. And yet . . . I then learned that I'd been denied EU fee-paying status through some dastardly clerical error. I made a couple of phonecalls, and got a prized email address.

There then followed a silence of five days. I emailed again on day seven. Two days later, I got this:

On checking your documents on PAC can you confirm the following –

Where you state that you worked in London during 04 through to 08, was this in the UK?

I await your reply

Withr egards

Exactly like that, too.

What? London, in the UK? No. Surely not! I meant Ohio. Or was it Ontario?! Is that why the payslips that accompanied my applications read HM Revenue and Customs? Is that why they bore London addresses with big ole Brit postcodes on them? Is that why they were paid in pounds sterling?

KILL ME.

So, the deposit payment is due tomorrow, and I still don't know whether my fee-paying status has changed - so I can't pay them. This evening, I got a snappy email in response to my two-day old plea of 30 June, saying that this issue had already been addressed.

Is this actually proof that university administration doesn't read emails? Or is it proof of something more sinister?!? Comments please.