I should just enjoy the nice thing on holidays instead of using it as a stick to beat Ireland with

THERE comes a time on every holiday — usually about two or three days — and sometimes hours — in, where my wife will have to just issue a gentle warning: “Now Colm. Just be happy for the nice thing that’s here and stop feeling bad because it’s better than Ireland.”

The warning is triggered when I’m in the Old Town of a Continental city, pointing at something that isn’t held in place with bolt-cutter-proof restraints and uttering the phrase: “If that was in Ireland it would be robbed.”

It could be anything — a free newspaper, a flower display, or a four-ton piece of roadside art that contained scrap-able metal.