It's not easy being green. Or orange.

I made the mistake of being in the centre of Belfast on St. Patrick's day. I thought I had finally stumbled upon a riot, having avoided one throughout The Troubles, but it was a vast number of teenagers celebrating, after a fashion. Now I know why we try to bus as many as possible off to the Schools' Cup Final. I am, of course, used to large quantities of disagreeable adolescents but for normal people, Hitler Youth would have been less intimidating. They were gathered in pockets, breaking bottles, screaming at each other, gesturing obscenely or carrying each other about. It was like Lord Of The Flies.

A couple of policemen could be seen loitering in a shop doorway. They seemed to think I was jesting when I suggested they waste no more time before donning riot shields and getting the giant hoses out. This would have been useful, both in scattering the crowd and washing off the offensively copious fake tan on display. Most of the girls were wearing shorts and their legs were every shade of matt wood varnish from Antique Pine to Deep Walnut. Finished off with those funny little light canvas shoes we used to call 'indoor gutties' in my Primary School. And the hair; parted above one ear like Bobby Charlton's, arranged across foreheads in a great sweep then mussed up like the Hunger Strikers in their,er, heyday. Black seems to be the favoured hair colour and with the tans, the enormous eyelashes and the thick foundation; you felt that you might have come across the aftermath of some sort of transvestites' 'Homage to Pocahontas' carnival.

The boys looked as bemused, uncertain or uninterested as they have ever looked, but with magnificently maintained curly bobs or marvellously brushed forward layers. This creates a peculiar effect-a bit like Margaret Thatcher or Carol Channing on a skateboard, sporting an extremely low-hanging jeans' gusset.

Speaking of which, our local cross-dresser has taken to frequenting my village. He used to favour Marks and Spencers but today he stole my parking space outside Boots. He has very elaborate outfits, think 'village fete circa 1956' but remains a most unconvincing woman. I mean, he makes Les Dawson in drag seem fragrant and ladylike. Must be a very lonely, em, calling; he never has anyone with him. I wonder if he likes cappuccinos as I am thinking of befriending him. He can come with me next St. Patrick's day on a lovely bus tour I have heard about, involving the super smashing history and culture of Downpatrick with scones and Irish Stew. Just the thing for refined ladies of a certain age- and uncertain religious affiliation.