Anne Enright's  article in the current issue of the London Review of Books is a beautifully written pain in the heart. It is a description of what it feels like to be in Ireland now, gripped in an economic winter made all the worst for the thought: it was all our own fault.   But I love her closing account  of the wise children in the toy shop, the ones in the buggies watching their mothers weight up one piece of plastic tat over another, "the ones who are allowed to see it all, because they are still too young for Santa Claus."