DON'T LOOK NOW

DUBLIN after dark is at its very, very best only if the before dark part is handled with equally tender loving care. The slow build-up's more my style than the wham-bam-that's-30-quid-down-the-drain-ma'am nights of my long lost youth. With age comes wisdom - and an aversion to Batchelor-beans-for-a-fortnight endurance tests - the price all too often painfully paid for a night on the tear.

All of which sounds dreadfully square and predictable. I suppose it is too but not having to gaze at regular excursions of my intestinal contents wending their way into the toilet bowl is a welcome relief. And somehow I never did manage to pull off the look. I aimed for an Annie Lennox carrot orange and got nauseous grape; a Chrissie Hynde fringe introduced me to precious few Jim Kerrs but did manage to acquaint me with a disconcertingly large number of intrusive telegraph poles; Edge's torn Levi's look wrecked my one and only pair of jeans and displayed my distinctly uncool purple knees to a none-too-impressed public.

And the ultimate indignity: my seriously limited edition U2 T-shirt (specially couriered from L.A.) with its deep and meaningless admonishment that "Everything you know is wrong" disintegrates into a pathetically mutated "Euthanasia is on" when it sits atop my unSchwartznegger chest.

Is it any wonder I turned my back on cool?

Dublin before and after dark is at its eccentric, egocentric and smog-ridden best when viewed from Three Rock as the Wicklow Way whispers its way out of the Dublin Mountains. It's the bright lights big city seen from a distance, with a little breathing space. And it's open all night - after hours at your backpack's discretion. And not a sign of tuxedoed Neolithic monster to sully the moment.

Failing that, on a rainy night the alternative's easy: a bench in Mulligan's of Poolbeg Street where the barman will be guaranteed to throw dog's abuse along with a decent pint in my direction. My needs are simple.

• Siobhán Long