Apparently, we are now so rich and so lazy that we can't even be bothered to mash our own spuds. Luckily, there is a company out there willing to do it for us and I can only imagine that they must be laughing their forks off on a daily basis.

I don't know why I'm so surprised. Prewhipped cream has been available for some time now and nobody has yet screamed stop. You can buy a fry that you don't have to bother frying and my sources further inform me that it is possible . . . indeed preferable, for the discerning consumer . . . to buy all manner of fresh vegetables that have already been chopped and sliced. If only we could hire somebody to eat it for us as well, then we mightn't all be such fat bastards.

There is a fine line between convenience and indolence and it strikes me that we've just heaved our collective lardy arse over it.

I mean, how long does it take to mash a spud? To whip a carton of cream? The previous generation of consumers might (just) be excused the follies of Smash and aerosol cream because those products masqueraded as technological advancements and because all manner of silliness prevailed in the '70s . . . but this is proper food, real food. We can appreciate its nutritional value but we're damned if we're going to exert any energy whatsoever in its preparation. The ratio of money to sense in this small country is widening so fast that only Sonia O'Sullivan could keep up with it.

I'll bet she chops her own vegetables. But then, she doesn't actually live here.

If she did, we probably couldn't keep her out of the beauty parlour. Along with our reluctance to lift a kitchen utensil, the other most obvious manifestation of our collective wealth has been how quickly and easily Irish people have discovered the beauty industry.

Bearing in mind that for centuries, we rejoiced in being the least attractive race on earth, it's amazing that we're now devoting so much time and money to our physical appearance. Up until a few years ago, the vast majority of Irish women lived and died without ever troubling a manicurist. Now there are nail bars on every corner and pristine white half-moons on every fingertip. Perhaps it's just as well that we're not chopping our own carrots. Al dente is all very well, but spitting out fingernails can take the edge off any meal.

But it's our teeth that have come under closest scrutiny. Before the Celtic Tiger stretched her white-tipped claws, it was generally considered a bonus in Ireland to have any teeth at all. My parents' generation didn't bother much with them, replacing any stumps that had survived till adulthood with dentures as soon as the credit union gave the say-so. Mine was the first generation encouraged to make some effort to hang onto at least a few gnashers . . .

but even then the philosophy was that as long as you could chew your food, you were grand. Now, we have cosmetic dentistry and for the first time, we no longer find it absolutely hilarious that Americans have better teeth than us. Suddenly, everyone is noticing teeth. I'm doing it myself, shaking my head at people on television who could improve their looks so easily with a veneer here and there. I myself have had my teeth whitened, and after years of looking into his mouth without ever really caring either way, I now think Shane MacGowan should consider getting some work done. So that's the new Irish for you. Veneers and premashed potato. With due respect to dentists everywhere, sometimes I fear we've gone a bridge too far.

Driving the licence I suppose I should be relieved that some things never change but in the case of those perennially annoying television licence ads, I'm willing to make an exception. By my calculations, we've now suffered more than two dozen ads reminding us to get a licence or our friends will hate us, and there hasn't been a single one of them that hasn't made this viewer want to burn her licence in a protest over low standards in advertising.

The latest batch are on the radio and all feature mules who are of excellent standing in their job/marriage/community and then totally screw up by forgetting to pay for Telly Bingo. What intrigues me about these social misfits, however, is the fact that, according to the ads, they get their names in the paper. Now, I like to think that I'm pretty much across the newspapers, and I can't ever recall reading a court report where the defendant was charged with watching Fair City for free. I'm not recommending anything; I'm just saying.

Roll out those mats Given that it's probably only a matter of time before the tabloids scream "IT'S HERE", might it be worth dusting off those Foot-and-Mouth-Disease mats now and soaking them in something unpleasant so that at least we all think we're making an effort? Could we roll them all out again in advance of Patrick's Day? If nothing else, they'll make for far more benign weapons after the thugs have their skinful and fancy their chances. Anyone for the last few flying carpets?