Look back in languor

A teenager writes to say that she is just a teenager and, like most teenagers, hates big newspapers. She writes to say that anyway she only picks up the magazine to plan her weekly television viewing schedule. She is shy, she tells me. The very idea of being recognised is enough to make her want to die. But on the other hand, the idea of getting some kind of mention in this column really appeals. So I just wanted to start by saying hello to this anonymous teenager. Whoever she might be.

I've been thinking a lot about my inner teenager ever since I was invited to Limerick to watch a play written by 18-year-old Caoimh McCarthy. I should clarify her name otherwise she will kill me. Her name is Caoimh, not Caoimhe. Caoimh as in (chicken) Kiev. Remember her name.

She wrote to tell me about her play, In Rear View. It's her second play and was commissioned by Limerick Youth Theatre. It's all about growing up and going through school, from first year to the Leaving Cert, from the very beginning to the very Debs. She picks up on everything that this fraught journey entails, so it's a play full of bad hair days and back-stabbing, boyfriends and just good friends, straight kissing and gay kissing. It's about all the small triumphs of those years and about the failures which always seemed bigger than they actually were. It's about how everything looks different in rear view. Sometimes much better. Sometimes not much.

I wasn't the only person she contacted. She also got in touch with John Gordon Sinclair, who starred in Gregory's Girl, and the director of that film, Bill Forsythe, so I like to think I was in good, if slightly dated, company.

The others didn't reply, but I'm so glad I did, because meeting Caoimh for coffee in Dublin was like meeting my very own doppelganger. If Bono can have one then so can I. She is, it turns out, a much better, more together version of me. They are small, the things that bind us, but at the same time they seemed too big just to dismiss as coincidence. She likes her coffee black, as I do. She eats with her knife and fork in what most people consider the wrong hands, the way I have done since I was very young. She was carrying the same ancient model of mobile phone as me, a phone nobody else I know would be seen dead with. There are other even more startling things that I can't divulge because she said she would have to kill me if I did. They concern our boyfriends and bagels. I can't say any more.

In the run-up to her Leaving Cert, she became a columnist for the Limerick Leader so, despite our age difference, we have almost identical careers. I sat eating a scone listening to her, slightly jealous that she was doing what the 18-year-old me would never have imagined she could do. I was impressed by how she didn't think there was any point in waiting until she was older to try to achieve her goals. She had already realised that she is at the age where you can get away with almost anything. I think by the time some of us realise that, it is too late.

So I found myself on a train to Limerick. The last time I was in the city was more than 10 years ago, for an Aslan concert, and I ended up sleeping in the wardrobe of a hotel room. This time I stayed in a bed in the Armada B&B on the Ennis Road, and the proprietor, Ken, kindly drove me around the city, humouring me when, heading out to the play, I had a last-minute change of skirt. The play was funny and totally cringe-making, especially when my inner teenager recognised herself in some of the more uncool characters.

Afterwards, the cast gathered outside the Bell Table Arts Centre, mobile phones glued to their ears, engaged in crucial negotiations. Midnight, they pleaded. Quarter to 12? It took a few minutes to realise they were trying to get permission to stay out longer. At their request, I entered negotiations and am proud to report that I managed to get an extended curfew for at least two of them.

For a moment, the thought of going into a teenage drinking den, with mad music and wall-to-wall fresh faces, filled me with panic. But after a few minutes in their sparkling company, I relaxed. A bit too much, they might say.

When one of their mothers came in to pick them up, I ended up singing Carpenters' songs with her while her Cola-drinking son looked on, totally appalled. They've only just begun. You are well on your way. They drink half a bottle of Miwadi with every vodka. You wonder where they get their energy. But it can't hurt to meet up with them occasionally and compare notes. You might even learn something. I know I did.