YOU HAVE to be very brave to walk along Fifth Avenue in New York at Christmas time. This is the golden mile, the platinum strip, where plastic is the main currency and even millionaires are nervous. It's hard not to be intimidated by all the shop fronts, with such legendary names as Chanel and Dior, Prada and Gucci. This is shopping for the seriously loaded. I overheard a teenage girl, as she pointed longingly at some Armani shoes, saying to her mother "Oh, let's get them Mom, we just saved nine thousand dollars on a dress."
People in Manhattan talk telephone numbers - and I don't mean Clonakilty 241. But while there is nothing on earth like Christmas shopping in New York, you don't have to spend a fortune to be part of the experience. I walked to the top of the Avenue and simply marvelled at the wonderful street decorations. All the stores go full out to make a bigger and better impression than their neighbours and each window tries to surpass the one next to it with its opulent, over-the-top, flamboyant displays. Outside Tiffanys jewellers, the doorman had spray-on snow attached to either end of his twirled moustache, like a frozen Salvador Dali, while in the windows, gold and diamonds sparkled together in an extraordinary firmament. I went inside briefly, but made a hasty exit when a sales assistant tried to sell me something glittery that cost as much as a house. But not all of New York is beyond the spending power of us mere mortals.
As a general rule, the further south you go on the island of Manhattan, the cheaper it becomes. As the day progressed, I had worked my way down through Chelsea to Soho. I love this area, with its collection of accessible, trendy and affordable stores. I bought a pin- stripe suit for a couple of hundred dollars which I hope to wear until the day I die. Finally, I arrived at Chinatown and the much renowned Canal Street. Here, your hard currency goes a very long way indeed. I bought a few designer bags for Christmas presents, and a top-label hat and scarf to defend myself against the bitter cold. They were incredibly cheap and all very well made, but I'm guessing not 100 per cent authentic. As I went further along the street, I noticed a crowd gathering by the corner. A shop had been cordoned off by the NYPD and they were taking away its entire contents in refuse sacks. I felt sorry for all those faux designer bags, gone to end their days in an incinerator, and decided it was time to return Up Town where they treat real designer accessories with a bit more respect.
While taxis are very cheap in Manhattan, the subway is safe, efficient and by far the quickest way to get around. Within 20 minutes, I was back at Time Square. I decided to have a late lunch at the Carnegie Deli, Broadway's original diner, where the theatrical vibe makes it quite special. With signed pictures of celebrities all over the walls, there is a great atmosphere, and I found myself sitting underneath Bill Clinton, like a certain White House intern, you might say. My elderly waitress was a great character. "Oh, you're Irish. My first four husbands were Irish", she said with pride. I noted the use of the past tense and couldn't help imagining they had all died in mysterious circumstances. The menu was full of drama too. There were 'Fifty ways to Love your Liver' and 'Tongues for the Memories', a dish named after Woody Allen and a platter called 'Hamalot'. In fact, vegetarians should stay well away. Even the cheese cake came with a side order of pastrami.
Early in the evening, I joined the crowds at the Rockerfeller Centre for the lighting of the Christmas tree. This event is televised all over the US and is the one single gesture which traditionally symbolises the opening of the Christmas season. The 80 foot tree came vividly to life with its five miles of lights, while Harry Connick Jr was there to sing Santa Claus is Coming To Town in his own particularly New Orleans style. But it was bitterly cold by now, and once the main event was over, the crowd quickly dispersed. Later that evening, we all met up at the Metropolitan Club on Central Park for John McColgan's spectacular fund raising event for the Abbey Theatre Centenary. There was a diverse array of stars there including a coolly dishevelled Gabriel Byrne; Milo O'Shea, still full of charm, and Fionnula Flanagan, who proved that she still has immense sex appeal in an evocative monologue from Joyce's Ulysses.
Later in the evening, The Celtic Tenors - that's myself, James Nelson and Matthew Gilsenan - gave a performance with spontaneous accompaniment from Phil Coulter on the piano. The evening was a huge success and went some way to help raise the necessary funds for a much- needed new home for the National Theatre of Ireland. On the way out, I noticed something which could soon be a familiar sight outside Irish pubs and eating establishments. Congregating around the main gate of the club were a small groups of social outcasts, braving the sub-zero temperatures for something which meant more to them than the simple pleasures of keeping warm. They were the smokers of Manhattan. No longer allowed to light up inside, they had been banished outdoors to shiver and shake as they tried to drag some heat from their cigarettes. I considered for a moment that packets might carry a new health warning: "Death by hypothermia".
On the last morning of my trip, I set my alarm for 7am and left the comfort of my room at the Fitzpatrick's Irish Hotel on Lexington Avenue. I wrapped up well and headed out the door into the cold air. The city that never sleeps was snoozing with the lights on as I walked the few blocks up to Central Park. The early morning sun had started to glow around the outline of that famous skyline and the great engines that drive the city were grinding back into life. New York, the most romantic, captivating and charismatic city in the world was starting to stir. And for that moment it was mine. The whole city belonged to me.