For "The Irish Abroad", formerly known as emigrants, March can be the cruellest month.
The calendar beckons reproachfully: "Come back to Erin, mavourneen!" So you log on, book a flight and do. You've heard that the old country has been transformed but confidently believe you are prepared. After all, thanks to the wonder of the internet you can now read The Irish Times in Sydney or tune in to Joe Duffy in Boston.
And, really, things can't have changed that much, can they? Fianna Fáil is still in power and the President is called Mary. You know about the smoking ban, the Luas, the ban on plastic bags, Cecelia being the new Jane Austen, Brian Kerr doing well, Westlife splitting, Croke Park's makeover, Bewley's closing and peace, at last, in Northern Ireland. "Did you ever think you'd live to see the day?"
And, yes, you did hear about the Economist survey that claimed Ireland was the best place to live in the whole world. But you have a busy life in Brussels, Moscow or Paris and can't keep up with all the news, so there are some things which inevitably slip through the net.
On the plane, your daydream is rudely interrupted when they charge you for a cup of tea. The in-flight shopping guide advertises - alongside Estée Lauder and Givenchy - Inis, an "exciting Irish cologne for women and men. A sea change for all of us". It certainly is. You are about to discover plenty more.
Outside the airport, an electronic panel on the bus shelter lists destinations in English and various continental languages. No sign of our native tongue. Achtung! Schnell! The number 748 is about to abfahrt for the Bahnhof Heuston.
Gott in Himmell! A fiver for a bus journey. Hasn't CIE put its prices up? As you travel round the country you find they're not the only ones - and you begin to realise that you are not as au fait with the new Ireland as you thought. Who is Hector? Why are there so many roundabouts? What is Ronan Keating's view on the EU Constitution? How many Cartier watches? Is Ryan Tubridy great? Which jail did you say he was gone to? Are Cork's bin charges really so high to justify burning rubbish in back gardens? And how come, after all the money spent down through the years, are there now almost as many people speaking Chinese as Irish?
A newspaper ad for "Kilkenny's No.1 Adult Shop" (how many are there?) offers a range of "DVDs, videos, mags, lingerie, hen & stag novelties". It may well be doing good business. The Durex Global Sex Survey suggests that peccadilloes once thought foreign are enjoyed with the enthusiasm once reserved for camogie and handball.In Gort, an estimated 600 people - over one third of the population - speak Portuguese as their first language. The manager of Duffy's Meat Plant in the town said the summer carnival was like "Dirty Dancing". You pencil in Co Galway for the holidays.
A Nigerian from Co Louth, crowned Mr Ireland at the national bodybuilding championships, represented the country at the Mr Universe competition in England. Does anyone know how he got on? Where's the lovely Sally O'Brien and the way she might look at you? Apparently she's long gone and replaced by Miroslava, from the Czech Republic, who works in a call centre. Her Latvian boyfriend, Andrejs, is a farm-manager in Meath and up to his eyes in the local GAA club.
One pub's Friday evening ballad sessions in aid of the hurling club have been replaced by pole-dancing nights for the soccer team. And poor granny's bridge group lost their Tuesday slot at the vocational school to Irish Cookery classes for the asylum-seekers run by Fr Sweeney's former housekeeper.
Dining al fresco is all the rage. Has the weather really changed so much? Fancy a bit of lunch? Something traditional would be grand. The dish of the day is "pan-fried sea bass with gently sautéed girolles on a fennel mash". A review of a Co Carlow restaurant complains that the presentation of main courses "let the side down a bit" by serving "crude boiled flowery spuds." Whose "side", and didn't we used to like boiled potatoes? So you go for a drink instead. Sixteen Euro for two gins and tonic! You gasp as the woman beside you at the bar hands over a €20 note and says, "Keep the change, Igor".
Everyone is so friendly and well-dressed. Look at the style! Louis Vuitton handbags! They're all planning shopping trips to New York as "the dollar is dirt cheap!", discussing their "pads" in Nice or Mijas and how "fabulous" the sushi is at a new Japanese restaurant - and, getting tipsy now, how Wexford could be the "new Barcelona". And tax rates are so low and there's no unemployment and so many new hotels. And taxis. Everywhere. Even at night.
In the hotel lobby, an instrumental version of Hail Glorious St Patrick weeps from the PA system and brings a lump to your throat. You think wistfully of your street with no name in London, Milan or Helsinki.
"Right. That's it". You decide - on the spot - that it's time to come home for good. And tired of commuting on the Tube, Metro or U-Bahn you'd quite like somewhere convenient. You'd even settle for Dublin 6 - at a push. So you phone the nice man at Sherry Fitzgerald.
"Two-and-a-half million, did you say? For the two-bed? Hmm. I'd like to think about it". Lying down, preferably. Sorry, but the only Donny you'll get even close to will end in carney. And don't even think about Ringsend. It's way out of your league.