the powers that be

The noble Heelers wanders up a corridor at Kilcullen Parish Centre.
A rather good looking woman is talking at the far end to the inimitable Uncle Scutch.
You will be spared gentle readers my usual maunderings about her looks because I have since been informed she's happily married.
Walking up the corridor I do not recognise her.
She exclaims as I draw abreast: "It's the famous James Healy!"
This is the sort of greeting that I heartily approve of and I therefore choose to linger.
For his part Uncle Scutch immediately decides to argue the point the woman's just made about my fame.
"Do you know James?" quoths he dubiously.
"Everybody knows him," answereth she.
"How do you know him?" challenges the Uncle more dubious than ever.
"Oh you know," murmureth she somewhat evasively.
Reticent with the words, eh.
Clearly the situation demands further professional elucidation from someone with a Certificate in Journalism from the College of Commerce Rathmines.
"Who are you?" I enquire bluntly.
"I'm Rosario Power," sez she.
Realisation dawns.
"You're not Paddy Power's daughter are you?" I blurted.
"I am," sez she.
This was all a bit rude even by my usual standards of rudeness.
The late Paddy Power was an influential government Minister and parliamentarian in the Republic of Ireland for many decades. I shouldn't have said his name to her the way I did. It's just public figures often seem like public property and anyway I tend to communicate in blurts.
I hadn't stopped blurting yet either.
"Your sister Loretto," I babbled, "I met her once about thirty years ago and when I told her that she had been named after an order of nuns, she proceeded to give me the slagging of my life. She was merciless. I'm turning red thinking about it now. I thought I was quick with the words. I never stood a chance. And your brother Sean, the guy in parliament. I once wrote some unfair rubbish about him and Fianna Fail on my website. Sorry about that. And there someone else in your family I've met. Oh. There's your other brother with the beard who the one was in the Green Party, the one that exposed the developers giving brown envelopes to Councillors. I phoned him once to say well done about..."
You gotta understand bold readers I didn't realise she was married at this stage.
I'll rue the day when it's not worth my while blathering desperately at strange rather good looking women I meet in corridors just on the off chance.
(The above line is best appreciated if you imagine me saying it in the voice of Mr Burns from The Simpsons television cartoon.)
Uncle Scutch decided to throw me a life jacket.
"The meeting's about to start," yawneth he, "we'd better go in."