high society

Strolling through the Cafe Des Beaux Parvenus at Newbridge Silverware this morning.
I am hailed.
"James, James."
The call has an imperious tone.
Turning I behold the striking, albeit somewhat matronly, form of a woman who rejoices under the name Phoenicia Lincolnshire.
There's no mistaking her.
She is the one and only.
Yup.
A legend in these here parts.
Phoenicia is a community activist, a mother of eight children, and possessed of a boundless determination which does not betoken impediment.
Somewhere between bringing eight souls into the world, raising money to build schools in Tanzania, and running a dozen community action groups, somewhere in the midst of all that, she found time to become the regional organiser for Ireland's major opposition party, Fine Gael.
Yes, energy is her keynote.
Boundless energy.
Her influence in the tea rooms of power down our way should not be underestimated.
She herself is the power behind all the thrones.
Let me put it this way.
She knows where the bodies are buried.
A phenomena of nature is awd Phoenicia.
Unique in her capacity to get things done.
I look on her as a sort of Irish Mrs Thatcher, one who presumably never stood for high office only because holding such office might have forced her to slow down.
Seriously though.
"Phoenicia," I beam.
She is not in the slightest bit dazzled or delayed by my beaming.
"I've sent you an email," she expostulates, cutting straight to the chase. "We're holding the Women's Mini Marathon again and I want some publicity."
I nod.
There is a certain rueful good humour playing about my gentle preraphaelite features.
"I was fired from the Leinster Leader two years ago," I tell her cheerily. "I suppose word still hasn't gotten round. I mean does anybody actually read that newspaper? Here is the news. I do not work for the Leinster Leader. I do not endorse the Leinster Leader product. I am not in a position to publicise events in the Leinster Leader. In point of fact, I hope the Leinster Leader and all who sail in her will shortly go beneath the earth retching blood. Ea re sanguinolente, as we do say in the trade."
"Oh," says Phoenicia perturbed but only momentarily so.
With a note of pity in her voice she intones: "Maybe you could put it on that thing of yours. The blog."
So she knows about the blog.
"Maybe I could," sez I.
A thought struck me.
Here was one of the most powerful women in County Kildare.
A woman with access to all the levers.
Perhaps I should let her know where I stand on some of the great issues of the day.
I fix her with a firm stare.
"Defend the faith Phoenicia," I say suddenly.
"What do you mean?" she murmurs.
"Defend the faith," I say again, staring harder than before.
She knows what I mean now.
"Oh right," she murmurs looking around hurriedly.
She begins to move away.
"Defend the faith," I call again.
She is moving faster.
Coiffeured parvenus look up owlishly from their tea and scones.
"Defend the faith against all who attack her," I cry again, this time loud enough for everyone in the cafe to hear.
Phoenicia is at the door.
"Defend the faith Phoenicia," I roar. "And tell the Dukes to do the same. Tell them to defend the faith. Or I won't want to know them."
Ah yes.
The threat every Irish politician fears.
The Dukes to whom I am referring are not members of the British nobility.
They are former putative Irish Prime Minister Alan Dukes and his wife local Councillor Fionnuala Dukes.
I'd say both of them will have a sleepless night tonight as they contemplate the bleakness of their political futures without the reassuring boon of my benign munificent blessings.