I technically live in Ireland. According to HMRC and a smattering of other inconvenient government agencies, I am a resident of Dublin. But my brain doesn’t spend as much time in Dublin as it should and my body, which can usually be found rattling around the apartment, could be anywhere. 

Out of the window, there are telltale signs that I’m not in Kansas anymore – the sign that says “Rampai” as well as “Ramps”, the kids going by in a horse and trap – but it’s easy enough to forget that this is another country entirely. There’s X Factor and Masterchef on the TV and John Humphries and Victoria Derbyshire on my radio. 

A couple of weeks back, I watched the Irish presidential debates as if they were an bizarre episode of The West Wing in which Santos and Vinick had been replaced as the frontrunners by an animated owl and a corrupt boiled egg. The animated owl won and there was much rejoicing. 

Sometimes, living in Ireland feels like starring in an episode of now forgotten 90s sci-fi series Sliders. Everything is just a little bit different. The cupboard is “the press”, having a go at someone is “giving out” and everything is “grand” even when it’s not. If I can collect a few more of those hilarious differences, I’ll be well on my way to becoming Ireland’s answer to Michael McIntyre.