Madam, - Frank McNally's Irishman's Diary of September 18th took me back to my early days in Dublin. Setting foot on Irish soil for the first time on Valentine's Day 1965 I was astonished to be greeted by a smiling friend whose first words seemed: "Kill me a Vulture". This rather took me aback until my friend explained that "Céad míle fáilte" was a traditional Irish welcome.
Like the Polish person mentioned by Frank McNally, I was also puzzled by "doing the messages". When a kind neighbour offered to help me "do" them I accepted, because this seemed to be important, but when we set off in her car I hadn't the least idea what we were actually going to "do". Messages, for me, had been things like: "Your dinner's in the oven - Love, Mum". My friend's help was, of course, invaluable, and I shopped at her favourite shops thereafter.
It took me a while to learn this new language. "Presses" and "hot presses" had nothing to do with ironing; when driving, "passing out" was to do with overtaking and not fainting at the wheel; when people told me that "the crack was great" at a certain venue, this didn't mean the building was about to fall down; "codding" someone had nothing to do with fish. And when, at the table, I was asked, "Would you ever pass the butter?", this didn't mean: "How much longer are you going to sit there before you finally get around to passing me the butter?"
And so, dear editor, after living in Dublin for 43 years, I now know that it is not at all rude to say to you: "Would you ever think about publishing this letter?" - Yours, etc,
JANE MEREDITH,
Glen Lawn Drive,
Cabinteely,
Dublin, 18.