Times change, and so too does the language. When I first moved into Dublin's Portobello district, there was a dairy which also, as it happened, sold candles. Now it's a stylish Afro-hairdressers's where you can have your hair corned.
Back then, coal was delivered by horse and cart. The coalman, a genial person with one arm, later graduated to a lorry, though good manners prevented me from enquiring how he managed to drive it. Now, coal comes in noisy, carry-out bags: throw the lot on the fire, ignite and stand back. Or you can buy packs of turf briquettes, though you have to ask for brickets or they won't know what you're talking about.
And why should they? Our turf is unknown to most of the shop assistants in this south inner-city district near the Grand Canal. They come from Africa (north and south), the East (middle, far and Australia), America (central and south) with, OK, a few from the rest of Europe. And if you think people should know what turf is, try explaining.
"Wood?" asks the Chinese shop assistant.
"No, from the ground. You dig it up," I say, thrusting downwards with my imaginary loy, "and put it on the fire". He looks at the asphalt pavement outside and then back to me with what I like to think is awe. His skills lie elsewhere. For instance, when I go to buy something, he's so fast on the draw he has the change on the counter before I've even decided what coins I'm going to pay with.
In the past 15 years or so, Portobello has become a multicultural cornucopia and nowhere is this more evident than in the eating places. For a start, there are the New York-style coffee shops where you can mainline caffeine while reading the paper in comfort and where mothers with toddlers and buggies can drop in and feel at home.
One of these places fills up, post siesta, with Spanish speakers. Across the road, an Algerian café which serves delicious pastries is full of Arabs in the evening. And then there's the place where you can have fresh green tea served, with a sprig of mint, in a little Middle Eastern silver teapot - poured by a man from Libya. The perfect way to end the day.
Across from him is El Sinbad where I eat spicy bits and pieces and imagine I'm back in the Baghdad of Haroun al Rashid and where the man waits patiently while I try to chat in terrible Arabic to which he, from Cairo, replies in perfect English.
I've made no mention of Bretzel's, the kosher bakery, mainly because it's so well known now that it's one of our national treasures, but it's only right to note that it was they who gave us bagels, long before the coffee shops started selling them.
Writers have carte blanche to be nosy and accents always interest me - which was why, trying out a takeaway last week, I asked the assistant where he was from. "Russia," he said, " though I spent my childhood in Tbilisi." Everyone brings with them trace elements of history and since no man is an island, their history flows into ours. The man laying new cobbles by the canal is Bosnian. The Algerian patisserie comes to Camden Street via France: in Algiers, the main Post Office, built to last by French colonisers, is every bit as grand as ours and the patisseries are as Parisian as they come.
Near Tbilisi, there's a town called Rustavi, which was once inhabited by Russians, sent there in the Soviet era to run the chemical factory. When Georgia became independent, man of the Russians were made redundant and one, at least, found his way to Portobello.
Of course, living in an international milieu, you have to adapt. Last week, dashing out to buy some coriander (sold locally by the armful as opposed to those mean little supermarket sprays) I found, to my chagrin, that the shop was closed - for Friday prayers.
And there's the odd language difficulty. When a halal shop closed, the handwritten sign read: "Please note, we have moved to Crambrasson Street." I knew exactly where they meant and maybe in 50 years' times that's how most people will pronounce it, with only a few knowing why it's spelled Clanbrassil.
But have no fear: Dubspeak is still holding its own - with humour thrown in free. A sign on the door of a long-established greengrocer's in Camden Street said recently:
"If you're looking for fruit and veg, we've moved a few doors down. If you're not, just go on standing here."