The Dublin Community Blog

Dear Dublin,

I have a bone to pick with you.  You’re losing me sleep. I’m holding you directly responsible for my current situation, one of domestic anguish.  I stayed up until midnight last night painting window frames, stripping layers of gloss off my front door.  Drilling holes for rawlplugs, filling cracks, contemplating the shape of  imminent backyard decking. I lay awake stewing over the perfect Crown colour swatch to accentuate the alcoves in my living room, ruminating over where to place the mirror to give that perfect illusion of depth and what shade of cream gives a hint of warmth without darkening the room too much.

I think about painting my tiny hallway with a burgundy suede colour to lead the eye upstairs. That’ll work if I leave the banisters and landing walls white.  Maybe I’ll add some uplighters.  Back to Woodies tomorrow, I guess.

YOU made me like this, Dublin.  My couches are comfortable.  My television works.  My fireplace takes real logs and all the appliances that help me make food are in pristine condition.  I wanted for nothing with my house the way it was.

But thanks to your addresses being so desirable, Dublin, the housing market is gone crazy. It’s on everyone’s lips, it elbows its way into every conversation.  It is the elephant in the room.  Suddenly, my little house has POTENTIAL.  Potential that simply isn’t being realised when I’m sitting on my arse enjoying life (so I’m told).  So now, instead of sitting comfortably, relaxing in my sitting room, I’m standing at the window, improving it.  I’m helping my house realise its potential. Not because I want to, but because I’d be a fool not to.
Every six days, another bank reminds me that I haven’t got long until the Dublin bubble bursts in spectacular fashion. Do you realise, dear Dublin, that  off the top of my head, I can name of the chief economists from all of the main mortgage providers? Austin Hughes from IIB? AIB supremo John Beggs?  These are names I should not know.  They should be bean-counting backroom abstractions. But instead, along with you, dear Dublin, they’re responsible for ruining my evenings.

With a paintbrush in hand my beloved remote control is relegated to an arse pocket.  I put it there because I’m standing in my sitting room, not sitting.  I now watch the reflection of the television out of the corner of my eye while applying the second coat of brilliant white gloss to the windowframe.  Last night it was The Matrix Revolutions in reflections.

My house, all 330,000 euro of it (in 2001 money), is now worth twice that. Or rather, it has the potential to be worth twice that if I get up off my arse and help it be all that it can be.  Just in case, on the off chance, I decide to cash in on the madness.

The only thing is, everyone else is doing it too.  You MADE them do it.  Everyone’s realising their potential, looking to cash in, so I have to make my house realise the potential it might have in 2008.

If only you were more like Cork.  I’d be sitting comfortably in my mediocre sitting room. There’d be peeling paint and rising damp, but I’d be sitting there with a can of Beamish, waiting for my rugby team to come on the telly and win the Heineken Cup. And my paintbrushes would also be sitting comfortably, in the shed, where they belong.

Sincerely, etc….