HOORAY FOR panic and pleasure and sweet palpitations! Oh, but it did the heart good to feel the heart flutter and skip a beat and almost stop, before the triumphant roar of those brave enough to look made it race again and nearly burst with joy.

At long last – a chance to celebrate.

Good news, for once. Great news. News to put a smile on your face, and make you sing and cheer and do silly dances.

The sort of headline news that has nothing to do with budgets and pay cuts, unemployment figures and politicians’ expenses.

The blessed relief of sporting distraction.

It didn’t matter if you never set eyes upon an oval ball or knotted an old school tie. Whether you are into rugby, soccer, Gaelic, bog-snorkelling or tiddlywinks – it didn’t matter.

This was a nation responding, admittedly belatedly and in a different fashion, to their Finance Minister’s call to “patriotic duty”. Thanks to the outdoor exploits of a rugby team and the indoor exploits of a boxer, Ireland grabbed the chance to get out there and party.

On an exhilarating Saturday that stretched giddily into the early hours of Sunday, we broke through the pervading gloom of the last few months and fell happily into the glorious Green beyond. First, a rugby Grand Slam title after a wait of 61 years, and then, the heroic capture of a boxing world title by a courageous Dub with a great line in patter.

Gift. Absolutely gift.

We’re not the better of it yet, thank God.

Bernard Dunne, who was crowned the WBA World super-bantamweight champion in Dublin after a gutsy display of stamina and self-belief saw him knock out the highly rated title-holder, will be honoured by his native city next week.

Yesterday belonged to the rugby players.

Coach Declan Kidney’s team, led by captain Brian O’Driscoll, arrived home at lunchtime and were met by a huge, adoring crowd at Dublin airport. It was a foretaste of what was to come.

Taoiseach Brian Cowen, who has wisely kept out of the limelight during the celebrations, leaving the players to bask in the glory, called into the Mansion House from Government Buildings, where discussions on the economic crisis are ongoing.

The Taoiseach, who loves his sport, stood back and applauded with the rest of the guests as the players entered The Round Room. He met the players and looked on proudly as his youngest daughter Meadhbh had her photo taken with O’Driscoll and Ronan O’Gara.

Social Welfare Minister Mary Hanafin, had she been in a line out, would have been penalised for barging as she elbowed her way through the throng to sit beside O’Driscoll and the trophy.

If O’Driscoll thought it was tough on the pitch, he didn’t reckon on the determination of Irish female politicians. He was sandwiched by Senator Ger Feeney and Cllr Deirdre Heeney, clinging to the trophy for dear life as the rhyming public servants smiled for the camera.

Outside, the crowd waved their green flags and waited for a glimpse of their heroes. Finally, the players emerged from the Mansion House to deafening roars of approval, walking a green carpet and a guard of honour of flagbearers and drummers.

Coach Declan Kidney, meanwhile, had a few words with Brian Cowen back inside. Was the Taoiseach asking him the secret of his success? Our IRFU man said that Kidney told his men at half-time that they had been doing everything right, and if they kept that up, the scores would come. “Keep doing what you are doing,” he told them.

Not, perhaps, the sort of advice to be giving to Brian Cowen.

Jerry Flannery’s mother, Jane, was waiting for the son to appear. “I was at the match — there were the Horans and myself and the Hayes. We stayed seated at the end and I swear to God, all the Welsh in front of us stood up. We couldn’t see a thing. Then we heard the roar. We thought it was the Welsh roaring, at first, then we realised Ireland had won. There were hugs and kisses and jigs all round.” Jerry is one of the many walking wounded on the team. “He has a big, big swollen eye. He needed five stitches,” Jane told us, as her son mounted the steps to the platform.

She looked on in delight, a proud Irish mother. “And his hair not even combed.”

Brian O’Driscoll’s girlfriend, actress Amy Huberman, held his nine-month-old niece Aoife in her arms. “I had her on my knee during the game and she hadn’t a clue what was happy. Thank God, she was a great distraction. When it was finally over, and I realised we won, I couldn’t stop crying for an hour.” Tommy Bowe sang a verse of The Black Velvet Band. At the first sighting of Brian O’Driscoll, the crowd burst into a chorus of “Ole, Ole, Ole.” There were high-pitched squeals from the sizable contingent of teenage girls in Ugg boots whenever Ronan O’Gara said or did anything. Then the ticker-tape exploded out of machines at the base of the platform with great gusts of tinselly green. The wind caught the paper and it rained down on the crowd.

Sure, it was only a game. Just 80 minutes of diversion. But it was great, and it gladdened the heart and the next few weeks at least will be a little easier and the memories will remain forever. By jingo, isn’t patriotism great?

“THIS is Australian,” says the salesgirl. “See here on the label? It says ‘Designed in Australia’.”

She is holding a leather handbag and letting me see only the top half of the label. The bottom half is obscured by her red-nail-polished thumbnail.

I look at her. Her thumb moves.

“Made in China,” says the label.

She laughs. I can’t tell if it’s a guilty or an embarrassed laugh.

“All our stuff’s made in Australia, to an extent,” she says. “I mean, most of it’s made in China - but we’re a wholly Australian company.

“It’s all designed here.”

We’re in Pitt St Mall in Sydney at 2.45pm and I’m conducting a little experiment: If I wanted to spend my $900 stimulus payment locally, could I find Australian-made goods worth buying?

Will I end up with nine pairs of ugg boots? I hate uggs.

In every shop, I ask if there are any Australian-made goods.

On every occasion I’m greeted with some degree of awkward throat-clearing or defensiveness.

“Oh, yeah, I know what you’re saying,” says one saleswoman. “I like to spend my money here too.”

Staff tell me there’s no Australian content in Hype, Witchery, Nine West, Esprit, Just Jeans, Oroton, Emporio and Strandbags. At Surf Dive ‘n’ Ski, they’re selling green-and-gold thongs bearing the names Surfers Paradise, Bondi, Cottesloe, Maroubra.

All made in Brazil.

How about the flower stall?

“Ah, these ones are Singapore orchids - from Thailand,” says the florist, holding up flowers so blue they’re almost neon.

Laughing with an apologetic air, she adds: “Some of the others are from Africa.”

In the 19 stores I visit, only seven have any Australian-made content - that’s 36 per cent. Only one, Jurlique, is all-Australian.

A shop named Glue has an Australian-made Backstage dress for $119.99.

Portmans has a healthy stack of local clothes and at Soul Pattinson pharmacy, there’s Le Tan, Sukin skin care and Nude by Nature makeup.

At Sussan, everything’s made in Asia except the nail polish and the lip gloss.

Then I get to Borders and it seems a gleaming ray of hope.

Of 28 books on the new-release shelves by the door, only five are printed overseas.

It’s an array of Australian-made words. Even the latest books by British authors Jeffrey Archer and Alexander McCall Smith are printed here. I’m delighted to discover such a beacon of localism, right here in the American chain store that locals love to revile.

Borders can’t be that bad, if even the foreign books are Australian-made, can it?

But that situation exists only because of protectionism: a long-enduring ban on the parallel importing of books, which the Government is now considering axing because it keeps prices artificially high.

So in this little shopping strip we have a perfect encapsulation of the Australian economy.

There’s a bit of manufacturing, a bit of protectionism, a fair amount of free trade - and an awful lot of embarrassment.

“We used to make it here but it’s just too expensive now,” one young salesman informs me. “It’s all Australian ideas, though.”

And that’s the crux. It’s just the reality of our modern economy, right? Australia is no longer really about making things. Manufacturing is 9.2 per cent of our gross domestic product. Mining is 10 per cent.

Agriculture is 2.6 per cent.

We’re a services-dominated nation: retail, finance, law, tourism, education, transport, construction, hospitality.

The Pitt St shop girls are the economy, even when selling Singapore orchids from Thailand.

So why all the bashfulness?

Well, here’s one reason: The shop girls know as well as I do that it’s very hard to be sure about the conditions in those Chinese factories or Thai hot-houses. Are they as good as in Australian factories?

Do the workers get holidays? Are they paid fairly?

AussieBum underwear founder Sean Ashby is still horrified to recall the time he visited a Chinese manufacturer who wanted his business.

The showcase factory was clean, brightly lit and staffed by apple-cheeked employees taking regular tea-breaks.

Then he saw the real factory out the back: dirty, dark and stacked with bunk-beds.

That’s one of the reasons it’s cheaper to manufacture offshore. That’s why Ashby keeps his production in Sydney.

And that should be the issue that concerns us. I don’t care if products are made in Bangladesh or Bankstown as long as they’re made by people treated decently.

We can’t make everything here, or stand alone against the tide of globalisation. Protectionism won’t protect us forever.

But we can be inquisitive about what we’re importing. We can look beyond the embarrassment and think about how things are made.

We can read labels and ask questions in shops.

I haven’t spent my $900 handout yet. Turns out half the ugg boots are made in China anyway. What a relief.

Emu Australia, the sheepskin footwear company, has named Andy Knowles as CEO Europe with a remit to oversee all European marketing from the brand.

Knowles was most recently VF Jeanswear managing director where he oversaw the Lee and Wrangler brands. He has also held senior positions at Nestlé and Cadbury Schweppes.

Emu Australia entered the UK market in 2006 and has just opened a European head office and sales showroom in London. The company was founded in 1994 and positions itself as a luxury brand with the strapline “naturally Australian”.

The privately owned company is a rival to Ugg boots and has just shot the 2009 autumn/winter campaign at a heritage-listed historical sheep station.

It’s been 29 days and 3 hours since I landed in Sulaimaniya. It’s official. This is the longest time I have ever been away from the UK. A time during which I learnt to be an editor, a journalist, a communicator, in both Arabic and English (the Arabic part is debatable), mud puddles survivor, a taxi fare haggler and a Barclays bank plc hater. Home sweet home(s).

My favourite part of the day, and sometimes not, is getting in the taxi to go down town Sulaimaniya. It is my only chance to have a direct genuine conversation with people. ‘I am Iraqi speak no Arabi,’ mocked one of the drivers. ‘I am Iraqi speak no Kurdi,’ I replied. We both laughed.

I learnt that it is considered inappropriate to strike a conversation with people you do not know and that smiling would be an invitation to flirt. But the adorable way Kurds try to communicate in Arabic is irresistible, especially if they are old men who like to reminisce about Iraq’s good days and Baghdad. Could they be talking about the early 70s? The only time Iraq has ever seen some kind of prosperity and not many had to suffer, although peace never prevailed. Not the Monarchy or the British occupation surely. Neither could it be Saddam’s reign. Perhaps they are just ordinary people who just enjoyed being them and living their lives despite the hardships they were subjected to. What I heard and read in newspapers on Kurds and Arabs have almost been non-existent in Sulaimaniya during the past 4 weeks. True, there are more Kurds than Arabs here, but not one so far seemed to consider themselves anything but Iraqi, and sometimes the word Kurdish preceded the word Iraqi. Were they being nice to me because I am a customer? Or perhaps when they realize I had no hand in the gassing of Kurds, and instead talked to them in a civil manner, they react accordingly. Perhaps I am making progress already. Perhaps through me, they believe we are one. Perhaps they will regain their patriotism to Iraq as a whole. Perhaps it’s the politician’s game that makes things look ugly. Or perhaps I am being unrealistic and naive. Who knows!

Sulaimaniya is a modern, up and coming city that has a limited choice of entertainment but a vast history and a beautiful nature. The mountains surrounding it are breathtaking, while trekking the way up to the tips of them is surreal. What attracts me to it mainly is the endless long road it was built around. Salem Street is prefect for people like me who easily get lost. Modern cafes dotted along the street have become my home for the past 4 weeks. I eat, write, make phone calls, shop, edit the magazine and work till dawn while drinking tons of lemon and pomegranate juices. My day is made when Kathem Alsaher, my favourite Iraqi singer, comes on one of the plasma screen TVs in the cafe. Only then I feel I am in Iraq.

I often drift into thoughts about my life in the UK when I see the pen I received as a gift for graduating from university, now the pen I use during interviews. A key ring that became the one for my first home in Iraq. A notebook; my travels’ official diary. My lucky charm necklaces that I alternate everyday. My business card holder that will be effective from tomorrow. My watch, of course, to keep track of time, and yet another one sitting on my desk amongst lots and lots of cards scattered on my messy desk; a reminder that I am loved.

It is quite common to be sitting with a client discussing the latest issues in Iraq, or be having dinner with a friend in the evening, when a power cut occurs. Everyone pauses their activities for a few minutes till power resumes, and they carry on going about their business as normal. Like someone has paused a movie for a few minutes, or seconds sometimes. This happens several times a day.

I noticed that I yawn much more often and my hair needs more regular washing. My chocolate Ugg boots have now become yellowy cream. It never stopped raining since I arrived and the days get much colder at night. Mud puddles became my worst enemy as the city is going under wide construction and development and workmen are everywhere. The only problem is that in Iraq, workmen take eternity to finish a job.

I moved into a block of apartments in a secluded village just outside of Sulaimaniya. Thankfully, Sulaimaniya isn’t a large city so I am able to reach Salem Street in just under half an hour, if a taxi passes by that is. Leaving me stranded on top of the hill for the dust to settle right behind my contact lenses. Taxi drivers often think I am crying.

I will be in Baghdad soon to interview people regarding the magazine cover story as well as a few other stories. I will once again, after many years, visit places in Baghdad I had not been to for almost two decades. Once Zainab the quiet struggling school girl carrying her books to school while adjusting her glasses, now Zainab the editor, the writer, with her dictaphone, pen and notebook, and of course a laptop bag that doesn’t fit my laptop in it properly which often makes me look clumsy.

So here I am, grumbling about mud, dust, rain and Uggs. Having just been scared the devil out of as all lights in my apartment went out whilst in the shower. To crawl my way out and hope someone would call me so my mobile would light the way. Nothing like a power cut during a shower in a secluded home in the mountains of Iraq.

I apologize for the long absence as settling in has not been easy. With no internet at home, I am truly lost.

I am here. I live here. I work here. I am pursuing my dreams here. This is where I want to be and these are only the beginnings of what I want to do.

The exclusive social club has sent members a two-page illustrated guide of its strict dress code.

Bare midriffs, torn jeans and thongs are banned from the Member’s Reserve.

Men will be refused entry to the Long Room or Member’s Dining Room if they have no tie or wear a zippered jacket and women will be turned away in leggings, denim jackets or three-quarter pants.

In case members don’t know what tracksuit pants and ugg boots look like, the MCC had models pose in the unacceptable clothes.

The latest MCC membership letter warns members they will not be admitted unless they can pass the fashion police.

“To avoid any embarrassment at the turnstiles, please ensure that your attire, and that of your guests, is appropriate.”

MCC chief Stephen Gough said the guide was necessary to inform members, who will this year pay up to $726 in fees.

“It’s come about because we have so many occasions when members might bring guests that are unaware of the requirements,” he said.

“Sometimes members themselves don’t know what is expected of them.

“So we’ve done this because it can be embarrassing for people to get knocked back and a major inconvenience.”

But MCC members said the dress guide was a step too far.

Country member Brendan Carrick said the MCC was pointing out the obvious.

“If you’re a member, you know what you’re expected to wear,” he said.

“You don’t need a two-page guide to remind you to wear a collar or to remind your guest that they have to wear a tie.”

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