For awhile during the week I thought my moment had come. Revolution was in the air. In Dublin a conference room full of 1500 pensioners were showing their teeth, or to be exact, their dentures.Wild eyed behind flashing specs, the word Grey Panther had taken on an emerald hue. On the platform stood the sacrificial goat, a Junior Government Minister, helpless and hapless and bleating plaintively for understanding.
The next day they were on the streets again having commandeered every piece of rolling stock on the railways and marching on Parliament. This time there was no Government minister to be seen.
The Oldies were following in the queue by the students, fleeter of foot than their predecessors, but no less impassioned.
By now the only elected representatives to be found in the capital were men and women waving their resignation papers.
In m y neck of the woods even my postman was asking me where we'd end up.
By the Friday I knew the earth really had moved. My good friend and butcher told me that the bottom had fallen out of the greyhound puppy market. For yonks a reliable dog man could depend on getting a grand per pup from the clintele of every pub in the country.The market was big in syndication. Ten boozers ( or sportsmen) would peel off a green one each and qualify as an owner and gentlemen. But then the banks crashed and the economy hit the skids and noone was buying dogs.
On Sunday morning at Mass in the Cathedral, the top priest, a born and bred , dyed in the wool Fianna Failer got up to deliver his sermon and lashed out at the budget. In the congregation a traumatised local politician who is currently Mayor of Loughrea had to choose between politics and faith. He chose politics and walked a lonely walk out of the church( though he claims that when the sermon was over he went back).
Things had come to such a pass that I wasn't terribly surprised when my friend returned from France with the news that things are so bad over there, the French railways won't put on extra carriages to transport protesters to Paris, so they are reduced to gallic shrugs and muttered "merdes"
Meanwhile in Loughrea the tom toms are beating away with news of my night in the hospital . The story is that I fell and injured myself and had to be ambulanced to Ballinasloe. Sadly the story lost its impact when it was admitted that I was discharged .What isin't known is the detail of my night in ER. All things considered, I think I'll leave it that way.