The Bottom Line:

I'm a rapidly decaying, thirtysomething Irish heterosexual in a town where absolutely everyone likes to look and feel utterly fabulous, from the morbidly obese to the homeless people.

My current exercise regimen consists of carrying my four-yearold son up and down the interminable stairwells to be found in every single Manhattan subway station . . . well, until I threw my back out, anyhow.

A family membership to the local YMCA has enabled one to avoid exercise even further, using their cheap babysitting service to go abandon all parenting responsibilities in favour of a trip the movies and some nice cake afterwards.

Here's the thing, however . . . this place goes out of its way to accommodate, nay positively embrace, every variation of freak imaginable, which means I'm very possibly the coolest person I know. That said, I don't know very many people.

The most liberating feeling imaginable is to find oneself in a place beyond conventional notions of style, fashion and beauty . . . a place I like to call Downtown Jersey City. We may live a mere 10 minutes away from the glorious insanity of Manhattan, but Downtown JC remains a world apart, a bizarre melting pot that never fails to surprise, appal and enthral in equal measures.

Here, Jersey's favourite son Bruce Springsteen is God, a fashion risk means doing your shopping in your pyjamas and . . .our favourite bit . . .middle-aged Irish geek chic never, ever goes out of vogue. Thank Jaysus for that.