I like lists. I made one last week using a sheet of headed paper the government sent me, a carpenter’s pencil I found behind my ear and a Robert Roberts coffee stain. You can try this at home yourself. Use a tea stain if you want. Or a biro. The choice is yours.

First on my list - the garden centre. Howya getting on, Breda? I need a television plant. [Blank silent stare]

Maybe I should explain. Maybe you should. Right. I have this big TV wall bracket thing and I want something to put on it. It looks very bare. I was considering a plant. Did you consider a TV, Primal? I did for years but now I ‘d prefer looking at a plant. I might be killing the sale here, but did you consider taking down the bracket? The wall would have to come with it. I like having the wall there for hanging things on. Like TV brackets? Yeah. If I ever get a second plant, I’d need a second bracket wouldn’t I.

Next on the list - the post office in the local shop. Can I have a €50 whatchamacallit, a Musketeer voucher please? A what? The vouchers that you can use in any shop. Oh, an All-for-One voucher. There you go. That’ll be €52 please. What? €50 worth of stuff costs €52? That’s scary. I’m afraid so, Primal. Is there anything else I can frighten you with?

Actually there is. This. That’s your shopping list, Primal. Look again. A shopping list with a coffee mug stain. Robert Roberts? Yes. Java. Very nice too. But look what it is written on. Ah, a TV Licence renewal reminder. I’ll do you up one now. No! Stop! I don’t want one. You’d better. That’s a 4th reminder. They’ll be at your door and you’ll be fined for not having one. No I won’t. I don’t have a telly. [Second blank silent stare of the day]

So what do you watch in the evenings? A pot plant. You watch a pot plant. Well not watch really. More look at. The wall-bracket where the telly used be is soon to have a pot plant on it. It’s in the car. How does that work out when you’re having a pint? “Hey lads, anyone watch that aphid last night? Something else huh?” And you won’t get Comfort conditioner in a 2l size here.

Look. Can you just tell them I don’t have a telly? They wouldn’t believe me. Why don’t you just write that on the back of the reminder and send it back to them? Tried that the last three times and it didn’t work. Try it again. Can’t - my shopping list is on the back. Sorry. Can’t help ya, Primal.

Okay. Thanks anyway. Hey, what you mean about the Comfort? I read it on your list. The 750ml is the only size they do here. It’s only a small shop remember. You’ll have to go to the supermarket. So you’re saying this shop is too small for Comfort? Something like that. Anyway, good luck now - there’s a queue behind ya.

It wasn’t on the list so I added it - a pint. The pub was deserted. Suited me fine. I’d read the paper in peace. The barman’s eyes lit up with the prospect of someone to talk to. It wouldn’t be my favourite Mediterranean country but as far as Mediterranean countries go it’s okay. I suppose you’re right, Rob - and I went back to my paper. I see you’re reading the paper there, Primal. Keeping up with current affairs and world news and all that. Well, I’m trying to but someone keeps disturbing me. I suppose it’s all on about the Lisbon thing and all that. Look, Rob. Why don’t you turn on the telly for yourself. Nah, I’m fed up with it. Nothing but racing and soccer and all that. Pity I dropped the car home - I have a grand pot plant in the boot you could be watching. [Third blank stare of the day]

He shuffled off. Finally some Comfort in this town. I checked the telly listings. Sure enough, a gardening programme at 8. I have the best thing in reality TV.*

*I needed ammunition for blank stare number four in case he came back.

Next week will be mad busy, says I to meself. Pop down to Little Britain and pick up the doings for a big stew or something that I can knock up quickly and will do me a few days.

And so I proceeded to pop. But I couldn’t do any picking or knocking because Little Britain was closed. Closed as it was Easter Sunday. Why in the name of the wife of the unknown soldier and her seven sniffling sprats would the country’s largest grocery chain close just because it is Easter? The bookies have to close by law - I knew that. Was there a law that shops have to close too? No, there couldn’t be. The small local shop was opened, as was the smaller unlocal one.

But I wasn’t going to do any picking in the small shops. No way was I paying over the odds just for the convenience of a convenience store. Even if the produce was organically grown by Tibetan monks in the arsehole of Longford. Even if it was cheap at half the price or whatever slogan they were using this week. No, I would leave the knocking for another day and take something out of the freezer instead.

Things boded well. The lid of the container had embossed the trademark on the casserole. Well most of the letters anyway. Tub-bits had become T its. Sweet! Now there was food I could look forward to getting lips around.

Frozen food, as any scientist worth their NaCl will tell you, exhibits properties not dissimilar to kettles and pots - it won’t defrost if watched. So the best thing to do was tip out for a couple of pints to pass the time. Tipping out for pints is the best Irish pastime ever.

- Ah how ya getting on, Primal? What’s with ya?

- Not a whole lot. Just defrosting tits for me dinner. Look Left seemed a bit puzzled.

- Right so. I prefer a bit of steak meself, but shur whatever yer having yerself.

- I’ll have a pint so. Thanks. And I scooted out to the jacks before he could say another word.

Returning to the bar I noticed the service gates to the pub were open so being the civic spirited gent that I am I let the barman know.

- Listen, Seán - do ya know your back passage is wide open?

- Thanks, Primal. I’ll close it now before I forget. Last thing we want is a draught upsetting the smokers in the beer garden.

Uproarious laughter from Tony Two Lines, much to the chagrin of Look Left.

- It’s not funny, Tony. That was a major security risk. Anyone could’ve got in. We could have been murdered on our barstools.

Uproarious laughter x 100.

And so continued the giddiness until it was time to return home to room temperature tits. A good day overall. Very enjoyable. I suppose I should thank the folks in Little Britain, but first I want to ask them why they were closed. Why? Why? Why? The Easter Bunny died on the cross so we all could have chocolate eggs. He didn’t die cross so shops could close.

Roughly once a month I go to the German shop to get all the all the stuff I didn’t list here. For a discount store that gets bad press betimes, I have always been overwhelmed by the service. Until this week that is.

A trolley with 6 trays of cat food for my neighbour, who, by the way, has a cat and isn’t on some economy drive; 2 large packs of loo roll with a cute kitten on the wrapper, not that I’ve ever wiped with a kitten although I wonder what …; anyway, 2 large bags of dog nuts for my best friend who is a dog; 2 slabs of German beer for me who I’m very fond of; 4 packs of kitchen roll; 3 bottles of washing up liquid; and so on - 2 of this, 4 of that, 5 of another.

A trolley groaning under the weight. And me groaning too. I get to the checkout and place one of each item on the belt. By her name tag I guessed the (scaldingly hot) girl is Polish. Cześć się masz? Cztery z tych pozycji; sześć z tych; dwa; pięć; trzy - pointing out each and the remainder in the trolley. All distributed so as to be easily visible, mind you.

Was she impressed at my crap, yet brave attempt, at Polish? No! All items must be placed on the belt. But why? I always just put out one of each? All items must be placed on the belt. But that’s pointless. And they’re heavy. All items must be placed on the belt.

I gave in and took everything out. All the while declaring resistance is useless! in my best Vogon.

The guy behind me obviously wasn’t on for hassle and had the belt piled high before I had paid. As I turned to leave I heard her tell him you will have to go to another checkout - I am closed and she walked off. He roared after her: You people are gone as bad as the Irish.

Maybe she was just having a bad day. Or maybe it was a case of when in Rome, drive like a lunatic, shout a lot, eat pizza for lunch etc.

I had to do it. What choice was there? If I didn’t buy my adopted nephews and nieces presents they’d never talk to/try to talk to/gurgle at/dribble on me again. So I hit the shops.

An Irish rugby jersey for Oisín. By the time the season kicks off he’ll fit into it. And a tee that says “Am I cute or what?”. An Irish language pictionary for his big brother - with a Gaeilge-phobic dad that’ll cause a stir. Oh, and of course the obligatory Robert the Construction Operative socks - complete with spanner shaped rubber grips on the soles. A book of Roald Dahl poems for another ‘nephew’. A really girlie pinky flowery thingy for making your own party invitations for his sister - her birthday’s in January. And so on until each would have something to wear or read and something to play with. Sort of Kinder Surprise without the chocolate and poorly dubbed voices.

The whole operation only took an hour and a half and that was in three different shopping centres. Not bad going. The only shop I had to queue for service was Eason, which says something about our nation’s love of reading. But what does it say about the economy?

I don’t know. I’m no economist. But I do know that 1½ hours is the quickest I’ve ever done the prezzie-run. Is it that there are so many shopping centres now that the buyers are spread out among them? Or are consumers cutting back this year? Are they short of money or just sick of buying crap non-stop the whole year long?

The ESRI would know, so I had a look at their website. Big mistake! Christmas is depressing enough without reading ESRI reports. “Growth to slow in 2008″. “Unemployment to rise”. And damn difficult to understand too: “Factory gates” and “gross national product”. Well if the products are that gross then I suppose the factory would have to be behind big gates.

Then I noticed something I would understand - the Consumer Sentiment report. Wrong again! It’s all figures. “The forward-looking sub-index weakened to 49.2 in November, from 58.4 in October”. What the hell is that about? I checked the archives and still more figures. If I was writing these I’d tell it like it is: “Mid February showed consumer sentiment to be soppy”. “In the heat of July consumers were horny”. “At Hallow’een consumers were scared”.

A jeweller I met tells me she’s having the slowest Christmas ever. Yesterday should have been mad busy in my local with most people finishing work for the holidays, but the manager had to send one of the staff home. My builder had a team of 16 working on 4 sites last June. As of yesterday he has just 4 and he’s trying to find things for them to do on the single site remaining.

I think the real test will be to ring around on Christmas morning and ask the kids what Santy brought. If the reindeer were tired this year and couldn’t carry much then we’ll know the true state of the economy.

A woman is out shopping when she gets a call to say there’s been a terrible accident and her husband’s been taken to hospital badly injured. Making her way to the car she notices a sign over the entrance to the new mall: Today only - All stores, all items, just €5. I’ll just have a quick peek, she thinks. Five minutes won’t make a difference.

In the first shop she sees the most wonderful pair of Manolo Blahniks. And only €5. Too good an opportunity to miss.

Just down the way she picks up a party dress by Rebecca Taylor. Kittenish and feminine. Irresistible at €5.

A pair of jeans, numerous tops, belts, more shoes, and two hours later sipping a coffee admiring her purchases she remembers the phone call. She races to the hospital and is met at the door by a stern looking doctor - a woman of her own age but with the air of authority of one much older.

Well, well, well. I hope you are ashamed of yourself. You swanning around the shops and your poor husband fighting for his life on the operating table. Now, missy, let me tell you, you’re shopping days are over. Your husband was so badly injured that he will need round the clock care for the rest of his life. He will have to be fed and washed and changed like a baby. And you will be the one doing it. There won’t be time for shopping. Shame on you. Shame on you.

The woman breaks down crying uncontrollably with guilt and remorse. With thoughts of how her husband has suffered. Of how she will cope.

Ha, says the doctor. I’m only messing. He’s dead. Show me what you bought.

Tempus fugit - time flees - not time flies as is the common misconception. That would be something like tempus volvit, but the linguist among us can correct me - over to you Gayé. How we came to translate it as time flies is just probably that it makes more sense in English that way.

On languages, while we’re on the subject, I am considering making a representation to the Terminology Committee of Foras na Gaeilge - If the act of shopping is translated as ag siopadóireacht, then surely going to the Italian take-away should be ag chipeadóireacht and likewise, buying sweet and sour pork with fried rice should be ag chineadóireacht.

Anyway, back to time. Why am I obsessed with it these days? I seldom rush. Rushing leads to mistakes. If I’m going somewhere, I leave early and am never late. An erstwhile Mrs. Sneeze insisted we, or rather I, try the leave early so she’d never be late system, and while it worked, it wasn’t any fun. She got dumped fairly rapid I tell you. Bad hair anyway. But that’s a story for another day.

Now I’m not advocating being painstakingly slow either, which is something I must explain to the staff down my local.

I know what time the sun rises and sets. I know when it’s midday. That would be enough for me were it not that a lot more precision is required when dealing with people. The dog is happy being fed at dawn, a good ramble and a chat at noon and a snack at dusk. People don’t seem to like me saying I’ll meet you 2 hours after sunrise. So I am forced into wearing a watch.

And a grand watch it is. I have it 12 years and like most of my possessions it came to me in a roundabout way. A lad bought it off a lad who was a jeweller for half-price as a gift for his father, only to realise that his father couldn’t use it because of failing sight. He sold it on to me at half what he paid. So I got a £200 watch for £50. 5 year guarantee and all.

The problem is the winder broke off three times. The first two repairs cost me more than the watch itself so I’m not getting it fixed again. It wasn’t an issue until the beginning of this month when the date needed changing. But I could live without having the correct date. Now though, I’ve bigger problem. The hour has changed. Instead of being 24 hours out, I’m 25. Or 23. Hard to work out and very confusing.

In the shop this morning, the talk was all of changing clocks. My watch is 23 hours slow was met with strange looks. But I’m used to that. Just yesterday in the same shop I asked the girl do you do laces and when she said yes, I lifted my foot up on the counter. She actually tied them by the way.

So here’s what I want for Christmas in case you were thinking of getting me something. A portable sundial. See it’s got a little compass and spirit level built in. Perfect. No adjustments needed and what moving parts there are, are all enclosed.