A damning piece by Pádraig Collins in the foreign pages a few weeks ago, explaining why he had abandoned Ireland for Australia, got an airing not usually accorded to criticism from one of our own. Kathy Sheridan agrees with him
One of his points concerned the growth in general rudeness, a claim borne out by reports and surveys for several years and potentially lethal for the tourist industry. Yet, when he went on the Marion Finucane show, listeners dismissed him as a whinge. Maybe they don't get out much.
There's nothing wrong with that. I head for the city only under duress, and one of those occasions occurred last week, when our South American guest required an escorted shopping trip.
So we march out, armed with credit cards and a list which includes a wireless computer mouse, a hands-free carphone kit, some sheet music and a Maynooth-Dublin bus timetable. Speed and efficiency are key.
First stop is the computer shop. Inquire about the mouse and are waved vaguely towards the back. Wander like idiots before alighting on two possibilities (one twice the price of the other), bear them back to the desk and ask the young man what, if anything, explains the price difference.
The impression is given that we may view them only in the boxes and he makes such a poor stab at explaining them that a stranger intervenes. My friend hands over €80 or so, and the young man disappears - we assume - to get a bag for the rather large box sitting on the counter. We never see him again.
Next stop, the phone shop. Saleswoman cannot bear to take her eyes off her keyboard so my friend bends down politely and asks about hands-free kits.
The woman mentions just one, which costs about €300. Back to keyboard, tap, tap. Friend bends to keyboard level and asks tentatively:
"You have one a leetle beet cheaper?"
Woman waves at wall behind her (accessible only to her) and says there's one for around €90. Tap, tap.
Could we see it?
Box is landed on desk. Tap, tap. Long moments tick by as we stand there. Take a unilateral decision to open it, spot a dinky flashing light in the picture on the box and ask where that might be in the heap of paraphernalia.
"There," says the woman, pointing at what looks very like a small screw.
But that's just a small screw, we say.
Without missing a beat, she answers : "The flashing light is on the cable".
Cable?
"The cable you have to send away for . . . " Tap, tap.
She then stuffs the lot back in the box, distorting the shape of the package (which is intended as a gift). By now, some serious glowering is emanating from our side of the counter. She smacks a fresh box in front of us.
And so to that cute tourist office off Suffolk Street, for some warm Irish banter and the bus timetable (which my friend has been searching for in suburban newsagents and post offices for about three weeks).
Forget the banter. As for the timetable, we can buy it in any newsagents, says the man at the Dublin Bus counter. By now my friend is getting shirty.
"That ees NOT so", she says, and anyway, all she wants is a timetable for Celbridge-Dublin.
We don't have any, he says. Finally, as he turns away, she asks if he could photocopy the relevant pages in his own copy. He does it.
And finally to the sheet-music shop. Are waved (again) towards the back where we physically have to block an assistant's path to get her attention. She flicks listlessly across a shelf, so listlessly that I ask if the books are in any kind of order so I can look myself.
"Yes".
Listed by composer?
Shrug. "It's not there".
She's already turning to something else when we ask if there is some database she can check. No. Can you order it for us ? We don't take orders.
We head for a café. My friend asks for orange juice. We don't specify fresh because it looks like a place that might squeeze a couple of oranges. The assistant gets out a jug and dilutes some Sqeez (you know the one . . . pours with ease) in front of us.
We sit down to sip it beside a cracked window.
Pádraig Collins wrote about insufferably rude and arrogant bouncers and got the sniffy answer that he should not be frequenting sleazy parts of the city at night. If I remember rightly, the venue he was trying to give his money was beside O'Connell Bridge, i.e. our main thoroughfare.
As for my South American guest's experience, it happened in mid-afternoon around the city's smartest, most expensive street.
The shop assistants encountered were native Irish, and were dealing with nothing more challenging than a polite young tourist seeking to unload several hundred euro in double-quick time.
I kept looking around for a management type who could tell the difference between contempt and service.
Not a sign.