I came to Dublin in 1987 when most of the populace was going the other way. The ferry leaving Dun Laoghaire sat about 10 feet lower in the water than the incomer and, as the two crossed, just beyond the Kish, I swore I heard someone shout from the deck of the other boat, "You’ll need to turn the lights back on."

Driving off the ramp I found a nation in recession. Lads, if you think this "might-have-to-sell-thedaughter’s- car" quandary is a real recession, think again. Back in ’87, Ireland had more in common with then-communist Poland than four letters. It was a consumer’s nightmare; you couldn’t buy anything worth buying. A printer for your computer? There were two models in town, both at massively inflated prices compared to London or even Manchester, where I’d been living. One was out of stock, delivery in six weeks if you were lucky. I bought the other one. When the ink cartridge ran out I had to send away to England for a replacement. Balsamic vinegar? "No, we just have white or brown."

For the first six months I drove an English registration car. I was convinced people were trying to kill me. I changed the car. It made absolutely no difference. Coincidentally, I went round Dublin peddling my talents as a writer -- journalist or advertising copywriter, it didn't matter, I'd done both.

With but a couple of shining exceptions, no one gave a stuff. So I did my Kubler-Ross thing: Denial -- "This isn't happening!"; Anger -- "Why me? This is so unfair"; Bargaining -- "Just one commission and I'll give up drink for a month"; Depression -- "Ain't life a bitch"... I had almost reached the point of Acceptance when I realised that the demon scribe these guys were looking for was a) Irish and b) young. The remedy was simple -- lie! Accordingly, I sat down and wrote myself a family tree. In a stroke worthy of Stephen Ireland I killed my maternal grandfather, a Welsh miner, replacing him with a tenant farmer from somewhere south of Cashel. I sketched in a few aunts and cousins, too; names I could drop into a conversation at will. Then, I knocked 10 years off my age with one swipe of the pen.

This was the precursor to a series of small cheats that, over the years, have enabled me to survive in Dublin's unfair city.

These cheats include the elaborate notes I used to leave on the windscreen of my car to explain to parking wardens why it was necessary to abandon the vehicle on the pavement in Stephen's Green. These Mills and Boon tear-jerkers, written on the back of a used envelope, would soften the stony heart of a meter maid and permit me a quick trip to buy new kecks and socks. Warning: don't try this with the clampers, the bastards have souls like sour lemons.

I recall a phone interview I did in those early days. "What did you say your name was?" I enquired.

"Mercy."

"I'm sorry?"

"Mercy. As in 'Lord have mercy'."

"Lord have what?" says me. Oops! You see, I was brought up by a 'weddings and funerals only' Church of England father and a Methodist 'just sing loud and clear' mother. I wasn't in tune with the Catholic vibe.

On the occasions I accompanied my then-girlfriend to Mass, I must have stood out like a pig at a bar mitzvah. That was until I learned to kneel at the right time and, better still, mutter in all the right places. The rest of the congregation didn't know I was intoning "Rastafarian chip-shop computer programmer canteen of cutlery" sotto voce over and over again. Sacrilegious, I suppose, but at least I was no longer fingered as the local heretic.

Another thing I was unprepared for was the Irish veneration of the child. The English maintain an austere attitude towards their darling kiddywinks, stopping just short of the old Spartan trick of leaving them out overnight on the hillside to see if they survive. The Irish on the other hand tend to err massively on the side of indulgence. An only child myself, with an abysmally low tolerance of other people's kids, I found it necessary to seek out relatively child-free zones. To those of a similar disposition I offer Dublin Zoo on a wet weekday in term time, the Sugar Loaf or the Botanic Gardens as soon as the gates open.

The best advice anyone ever gave me was donated by my best friend and best man, the late Pat O'Flaherty, partner in my first business venture here. "Ernie", he said. "Fart in Dun Laoghaire, you apologise in Howth." Nothing epitomises so well the big gossipy village that is Dublin. I soon found that Dubs are very cute folks indeed, with the ability to ingest and commit to memory an indiscreet observation and quote it back, out of context, at a time and in a situation that puts the originator of the remark at a disadvantage. A gobby Mancunian, I fell into this pit many times until I learned to adopt a taciturn mien, modelled on Clint in A Fistful of Dollars.

Dubliners talk about "going the extra mile". I didn't realise that this had a literal as well as a metaphoric meaning until I'd travelled on the Dart. Getting on at Sandymount, at the level crossing end of the platform, I had to hike the full length of the platform when I alighted at Tara Street. These days I do my walking before the train arrives, having committed to memory where the exits are located in relation to the train at all stations I habitually use.

For instance, Dun Laoghaire's is at the front of the southbound train, whereas Sandycove & Glasthule's is at the rear. Going north, two-and-a-half carriages back positions you nicely by the exit at Pearse. Taking the last carriage enables a quick exit from Connolly.

When I landed here I soon found out that one of the great things about Dublin was the degree of trust that shopkeepers showed to their customers, even if they didn't know said customer from a bar of soap. I particularly remember an ironmongers in Talbot Street from whom I purchased a variety of tools, loaded them up inside a new plastic dustbin I'd bought, then found I'd left my wallet and chequebook at home.

"Sure, pop in and pay us next week," said the shopkeeper. This doesn't happen any more. Go shopabout and the assistants are likely to perform a citizen's arrest if you so much as remove a sweater from its plastic wrap. Such mistrust has driven me to shopping on the net. This I don't mind. At least it saves the frustration of taking a malfunctioning piece of electronics back only to find the shop has closed.

There are many more placebos I could reveal but space forfends. My friend Emily gave me a great piece of advice: "As soon as Dublin starts to get up your nose, go to the sea and gaze at the horizon." Anyhow, after 20-odd years I'm sure I've 'gone native'. One, two, three... "Ringa, ringa Rosie..." HQ

scoop@dna.com

- Ernie Whalley