HELLO, my name is Claire and I'm from Mayo. Of course, if you were beside me, you'd know that from the smell of turf and porridge off me.
Oh yes, it's not so much that it follows me around all day, as that it goes before me.
"Here comes Grady," I hear them say as I head towards my desk of a morning. "You must have been home for the weekend, that's a powerful reek of turf from you today," they might say.
Oh Marie-Louise, Marie-Louise. Enda Kenny's homecoming must have been a powerful occasion. Why, your report not only carried me west of the Shannon, it also carried me back in time. I imagine if they had radio in those days it was the kind of report an English journalist might have given of Michael Davitt at a Land League rally in his native Mayo.
All great excitement in telling the people of Dublin about this very different form of human life that carries on out there in the west. Not only do we look different -- apart from the big wide heads on us and the briary thatch on top, there's the knuckled brawn of a west of Ireland hand -- but we smell different.
I met Marie-Louise once. She's good craic and I remember her telling me her Mayo connections including, if I remember properly, her schooling in Mayo.
So I was a bit surprised by her portrayal of her own. Among all the flowery descriptions though, there is one thing over which I would have to take particular issue with Marie-Louise.
She describes someone fainting in the heat and the crowd and excitement of it all.
But the man was revived -- after the Seven Up was produced. Seven bloody Up?
Are you kidding me Marie- Louise?
As a proud Mayo woman, I want it to be known that if I ever take a turn and pass out, don't even think of trying to revive me with anything other than a large Jameson (drop of water, hold the ice).