VERISIMILITUDE. Or, how things exist in real life. The devil in the details. The nitty gritty. The bottom line. Brass tacks.

And when you really see it – the devil, the nitty gritty, the bottom line or the brass tacks – it can come as a real shock to the system.

Example: we know the cost of living in this country is ridiculous. We know it because we live it. We know it because we hear the stories of couples and young families fleeing the cost of living crisis in Ireland every week by moving lock, stock and barrel to England, Scotland, Australia or America.

Yet, ironically, because we live it every day, because we are part of this dysfunctional picture ourselves, we don’t always actually see it that clearly.

Then something grabs us by the ears and forces us to really look – and our world is rocked by the sheer insanity of the reality we are being forced to live with.

It happened to me earlier this month. When my son, who emigrated to Scotland last year, was returning post-Christmas to the land of kilts and oatcakes, he left a packet of painkillers behind.

“You can have these,” he joked, as he hefted his carry-on luggage.

“They only cost me 30p.”

I looked at the box of Ibuprofen which he’d purchased in an Asda outlet in Edinburgh before coming home.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“The ibuprofen,” he shrugged.

“It only cost me 30p. Keep it.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said.

We said our goodbyes. He left.

Alone again, I looked again at the packet of sixteen 200mg Ibuprofen tablets from Asda.

Thirty pence?

You’re kidding me.

So I checked online, just to be sure.

Actually, he was wrong.

They were not 30p.

The box of caplets was 45p.

I could physically feel my blood pressure rising.

You see, we’d had a nasty ‘flu in the house over Christmas which, like any inconsiderate guest, took its time leaving, so we’d been buying a bit of paracetamol and ibuprofen.

I went to the family medicine cabinet. There was a partially used packet of Ibuprofen in there.

I looked closely.

“Okay,” I thought.

“Definitely something funny going on here.”

The box of Ibuprofen purchased in an Irish pharmacy last month contained 48 tablets, strength 200mg, and was not an Asda label.

The box of 16 Ibuprofen tablets, strength 200mg, purchased from an Asda shop in Edinburgh cost my son 45p, so, rough rule of thumb, we’ll say that a packet of 48 200mg Ibuprofen tablets should realistically cost the Edinburgh buyer … well, about £1.35 or so.

I consulted an internet currency converter site. £1.35 in sterling works out at around €1.58. All things being fair, shouldn’t we expect to pay no more than €1.60 or so for that box of forty-eight 200 mg Ibuprofen tablets here in our friendly Cork pharmacies?

Ah, but guess. How much did this box of tablets purchased in Cork – and not carrying an Asda label - cost me? €7.99.

I’ll say that again in case you missed it. €7.99. Five times what it cost in Edinburgh.

Do I care which company’s name was on the packet of tablets? I do not.

But I had no choice but to pay €8 for something that, comparably speaking, cost my son just under €1.60 in a city 90 minutes flight away.

This is what I mean about an ear-grabbing revelation.

So when I read the piece by the economist David Williams about the disparity in prices between the Irish economy and the international market, things started making sense.

Yes. We really are being screwed here. Royally.

The cost of big-ticket items, such as fridges, washing machines and TVs, said Williams, has fallen by 20% over the last 20 years.

The cost of phones and internet has dropped in price by 10% over the same period. The cost of clothes and shoes? Down by 37%.

So here’s the thing. Many products manufactured abroad by machines that can benefit from technological advances, observed Williams, have fallen in price over the last two decades.

In other words, he explained, the competitive global market is increasing the purchasing power of the average Irish person.

Now take a look at the Irish economy and the stuff that - as Williams explains - isn’t traded.

The cost of housing, water, electricity, gas and other fuels is up 159% since December 2001 according to Williams. (That’s an increase of more than seven per cent every single year).

Education bills are up 121% over the same period, rising by a reliable 5.5% a year.

Alcohol and tobacco are up 100%, the cost of restaurants and hotels has gone up by 80%, and what he calls “health prices” are, he says, up 78% or 3.5% a year.

So, then, what’s the connection?

The connection, explains Williams, is that three categories, health, housing and energy are all “core competences” where the Irish State is the major provider or influencer. And they’ve all gone up. Massively. You know it, I know it, and Williams has nailed it.

This rising inflation, this excoriating cost of living crisis which has caused so much pain and so much distress is caused by successive Irish governments. Governments made up of TDs that we have elected.

So, this is the reason why a packet of Ibuprofen that, comparatively speaking, costs around €1.60 in the city of Edinburgh is priced at €7.99 in the city of Cork?

Riddle me that.

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The cost of living in Ireland is really a bitter pill to swallow

7 0
01.02.2024

VERISIMILITUDE. Or, how things exist in real life. The devil in the details. The nitty gritty. The bottom line. Brass tacks.

And when you really see it – the devil, the nitty gritty, the bottom line or the brass tacks – it can come as a real shock to the system.

Example: we know the cost of living in this country is ridiculous. We know it because we live it. We know it because we hear the stories of couples and young families fleeing the cost of living crisis in Ireland every week by moving lock, stock and barrel to England, Scotland, Australia or America.

Yet, ironically, because we live it every day, because we are part of this dysfunctional picture ourselves, we don’t always actually see it that clearly.

Then something grabs us by the ears and forces us to really look – and our world is rocked by the sheer insanity of the reality we are being forced to live with.

It happened to me earlier this month. When my son, who emigrated to Scotland last year, was returning post-Christmas to the land of kilts and oatcakes, he left a packet of painkillers behind.

“You can have these,” he joked, as he hefted his carry-on luggage.

“They only cost me 30p.”

I looked at the box of Ibuprofen which he’d purchased in an Asda outlet in Edinburgh before coming home.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“The ibuprofen,” he........

© Evening Echo


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