The following morning the hotel suggested visiting the Garda station to report the theft of my wallet, as any insurance claim might require it. The receptionist gave me the most vague directions anyone has received since ET pointed at the sky, and off I went in search of the police station.

Eventually I found it, and a rosey-faced policeman came to the counter, whereupon I explained my situation.

“Did you lose it or was it actually stolen?”

“Well I didn’t chase, or in fact see, the thief, if that’s what you’re asking? But it didn’t jump out of my pocket on the way up Grafton Street either. It was definitely taken.”

I got the distinct impression that pick-pocketing does not actually exist in Ireland? Perhaps the official statistics simply imply that people lose more wallets a year in Dublin than anywhere else in the world? I suppose this is one way to improve the crime rate in the post election period.

He begrudgingly took my answer, that I was definitely a victim of a crime, and disappeared out of sight. A few moments later a different officer appeared.

“Hello, I have some good news and bad news.”

Interesting! I had not given them my name yet, but perhaps my wallet had been handed in (the good news), but all the cash had been taken (the bad news)? I asked for the bad news first.

“Well, the bad news is that you can’t report a stolen wallet here. But the good news is that nearest station where you can report it is only a couple of minutes away on Pearse St.”

This left me more than a little confused. I did not realise that Ireland now had police stations that do not deal with actual crimes. I can only assume that they just do directions for tourists, and perhaps parking permits. It must get very boring for all the policeman that joined up to solve crimes in their community, only to be told, “Oh, crime solving? We don’t do that sort of thing here, what made you think we did? Now, point that tourist in the direction of a pub.”

After this initial set-back, I found a Western Union office just down the road where I would be able to get the money HSBC had transferred for me the previous evening. I was assured on the phone that this would be a very simple procedure.

“How much are yer looking to receive?” asked the guy behind the counter in the broadest Irish brogue I had ever heard.

“Three hundred Euro”

“Ah. I don’t tink dat we’ve got dat koinda money at da moment, like. Sorry.”

So I stood there, waiting, for what seemed like a couple of weeks, whilst an assortment of Eastern European nationals sent money ‘back home’, just so I could collect my money and continue my wasted morning.

Seriously, these immigrants need to stop spending so frivolously on clothing, food and shelter, and start sending more of their money home. Then perhaps people like me can get much swifter access to the cash we need so we can go out and get pissed.

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