Anyway, over a beer the other evening he told me about some of the lectures he was attending. In one of those they were told, for example, that everyone should have a number of worries if they are to keep their sanity. If you have only one worry, you allow it to dominate your life and before you know it you have some disorder to which the Americans have given a name that contains the word syndrome and that – since the Americans are involved – probably involves sex somewhere.

He was happy about all this because he had a number of worries, most notably how he could become part of the enquiry industry and whether he could persuade me to proof-read the various papers he would have to write as part of his university course. Fearful lest he should be reduced to only one worry, I did not make any promise about my long-term availability as putative editor.

Afterwards I wondered what my own worries were. I suppose I worry about living in a country whose chief law officer says that it is all right to be a bigot, but there is not much I can do about that. In fact, it seems that any worries to do with politicaI matters could easily have you end up in the hands of psychologists and since my friend may well become one of those, I would prefer to keep away from them.

Since moving to Melbourne, I have two new worries. The first is how I can live in a city that regards graffiti as a form of art. Melbourne has streets whose walls are set aside for graffiti and where they have official events celebrating those places, occasions attended by the lord mayor and people dressed in suits and women with champagne glasses. I suppose it could be passed off as a leftover from Eureka or maybe we could blame former citizen George Pell, who is so unpopular that a few undeserved charges could easily go unchallenged.

Not having much patience with modern art, I could live with such designer street affectation except that it encourages trainee graffitists whose daubings mark the suburbs and public buildings all over the city. Even the windows of the trains have these scribbles scratched into them, something that would require a deal of work and determination, the kind of thing that is probably interpreted by the artistic fraternity as suggesting a really serious artist.

The other worry I have is which football team to support. It was easy in Canberra because each of the rugby codes had a team based locally and you could pick the one with the least tattoos. But that is not an option in Melbourne, where they all have tattoos.

My first inclination was to support the late Jim Stynes’ Melbourne. When I am in Dublin, I stay with a friend who lives next door to where his family used to live and I felt that someone who could survive that famous running-over-the-mark incident would be an inspiration. It was a poor reason anyway, but then a local football fan said I should not pick them because they were unlikely to be still in the competition in a few years.

Besides, the Melbourne colours are almost identical to those of Essendon and how would I know which was which if the two were playing each other? The same applies to Collingwood, Geelong and North Melbourne – is there an artist in the house? It was a reminder of the courage of the original Canberra Raiders club to pick a strip of lime green, quite possibly unique in the football world.

You may well think that I should be grateful if this all I have to worry about but you need to understand the terrible seriousness of picking a football team in a place like Melbourne. In fact, it could easily be my only worry if I am not careful, and I have already indicated how that kind of situation might end up.

Anyway, that’s what I think.

Frank O'Shea is a Melbourne writer.