Growing pains

I was writing a while ago about how my waist-size had become a metaphor for the Irish economy, with uncannily similar growth rates in recent years, fuelled largely by American investment (in this case mostly Big Macs).

Since then I've been anxiously watching the markets (some of them have been watching me as well) for signs of a downturn. But so far there haven't been any, and there is now every possibility that the economy may have to just give in and buy itself 36-inch trousers.

This week brought the news that, despite the labour shortages and wage pressures caused by the boom, Ireland has actually improved its position in the global competitiveness league: up one place to 10th, and still not even sweating.

I just wish I could say the same for me. Sadly, a shortage of working body parts, combined with unreasonable oxygen demands from those parts still in the labour market, has seen my competitiveness fall sharply in recent months - as measured by such key indicators as ability to cut my toe-nails without professional help.

Lately I'm finding that even moderately vigorous exercise, like trying to find TV3 with the remote control, can affect my pulse rate; while real exercise, like the Friday night football game (in the Global Competitiveness League, Division Four) has become an embarrassment.

I was never Franz Beckenbauer, even in my prime. But time was, when I went into a tackle, there was a reasonable chance of me getting the ball. These days, I'm lucky if I can get the man. Old football players are supposed to compensate for the loss of speed by using their heads. Unfortunately, my head keeps telling me to take up croquet.

As I've said before, aerobic fitness tends to be one of the first casualties of parenting. This is a paradox, since certain forms of baby-related exercise - like changing a nappy when the infant is trying to stand up - can take more out of you than cross-country skiing. Leave aside any of the other chaos caused by a baby, just dealing with the opposite ends of its alimentary canal makes the same demands of skill and stamina as the Olympic Nordic Combined event. But it doesn't seem to help.

(Incidentally, it struck me the other day that babies and the Irish economy have a lot in common: they both produce incredible amounts of gross domestic product for their size. Although at least the economy doesn't get any of it on the back seat of your car.)

Speaking of the economy, the latest sign of the boom was this week's news that the 300-year-old family wine business, Berry Bros & Rudd, has been tempted out of its London base to open a new outlet in Dublin, where among other things it hopes to sell fine wine at up to £5,000 a bottle.

Which is great; although personally, for that kind of money, I'd want a share in the vineyard as well. But then I'm speaking as the seasoned owner of an investment-portfolio - a fact which has come about almost by accident. Like many people, I bought a small number of Telecom shares recently; and I thought it was my first-ever investment until someone reminded me I also have an eight per cent holding in a greyhound.

When you think about it, the greyhound is the perfect metaphor for the new Ireland: lean, mean and (as some social commentators would have it) chasing a false hare. But whatever about that, when the 12-member syndicate of which I'm a member bought this dog some months ago, it looked on paper to be a pretty good prospect. Like Telecom, however, it has had some difficulty adjusting to the chill winds of competition, in which its record to date reads: unpleased, unplaced, 2nd and 2nd.

The dog had a long lay-off recently, due to injury. But the syndicate has been busy in the meantime, mostly with undercover work. For example, one of our members - Peter (not his real name, obviously) - is a big wheel in Government circles; and recently visited the White House as part of an Irish delegation, bringing with him a present of a specially-printed tee-shirt with a picture of the greyhound, for his opposite number in the US administration.

For ethical reasons, these intergovernmental presents can't be things of any real value. Indeed, some of the more cynical syndicate members suggested he could have given them the actual dog. But that was only the drink talking and, besides, the White House trip was part of a cunning plan.

The cunning bit is that the recipient has agreed to be photographed wearing the shirt, in the company of the president! And if we can pull this off and get a copy of the resultant picture, it will be a nice memento for everyone involved. More to the point, it will open up an opportunity to make money out of the dog, if all else fails; by selling syndicate shares to Americans, with the slogan: "Your chance to own a piece of President Clinton's favourite Irish greyhound".

That possibility is still some way in the future, however. In the meantime, the dog returned to action last Monday night at Shelbourne Park, where the race-card's form guide commented pithily: "market moves should be noted here".

And the market certainly was nervous during early trading: possibly reflecting concern about the economies of Latin America, but most likely fearful of a syndicate coup after the long break. Indeed, when the bookies belatedly offered odds, they were skinnier than the dog itself; which went off favourite but came back second, yet again.

Still, you had to look on the bright side - which, in the case of the dog, is that Telecom shares are doing well. This was one of the many things the syndicate reflected on afterwards when we adjourned to a nearby pub, where we finished the day's trading, as usual, several pints down.