Recently, I received news that I was to be cruelly evicted from the cocoon of the features department of this newspaper to report goings-on during Election 2007.
Talk about a culture shock. Up here on the fourth floor of Irish TimesTowers it's all t'ai chi, free stuff and water-cooler arguments about whether Sinéad O'Connor's gig at Dublin Castle was "fanflippingtastic" (me) or "bland as hell" (colleague). Normally, I just sit around, mainlining champagne and testing lip glosses, sometimes at the same time. Election 2007 sounded like, gulp, real work.
My worst fears were confirmed when I was sent to Áras an Uachtaráin in my pyjamas at what felt like 3am on a Sunday morning to watch the President dissolve the Dáil, a procedure that took about the length of time it takes for your average Disprin to dissolve. The next day I was dispatched to follow Enda Kenny on his first full day of campaigning.
Apparently we were in Trim, Dunboyne and Navan, but I wouldn't know because the day sped past in a blur. After a day out with Enda "I climbed Kilimanjaro in my lunch break" Kenny, I realised there were certain crucial necessities on the campaign trail. And perhaps the most important piece of kit is a pair of comfortable shoes. Not just comfortable shoes but ones that have been severely broken in. When following politicians around, brand new comfy shoes, whether Birkenstocks or Converse or Crocs, just don't do the job.
When you are chasing after Gerry Adams in Carrick-on-Shannon, it's not about style, it's about foot protection. Although, having borrowed my mother's comfy shoes, a pair of broken-in red Dr Martens Mary Janes, I discovered it is possible to combine both. Adams, by the way, wears regulation school-boy lace-ups, and you'd get a paper cut from the creases in his shirt sleeves, so top marks to whoever does his ironing. No sunglasses, though. All the better to see potential voters with.
The election hack needs sunglasses even in the rain. One of the most lethal campaign occupational hazards is getting in the way of photographers. When there are cameras around, which there always are, I am torn.
There are two options.
Option number one: hang around in the line of camera fire to hear Enda or Bertie wax lyrical about his surroundings. In the hairdresser's: "There's the ladies getting their hair done." In the butcher's: "There's the lads with their sausages."
Option number two: leg it across the road to avoid appearing horrendous and wrinkly of brow in the next day's newspapers. A cool pair of sunglasses can help make you look slightly less stupefied. Sunglasses on the top of your head just make you look like a tour operator.
You need other gear. A campaign battle bag. Your designer mála just isn't going to cut it on the campaign trail. You need something practical that says "I'm a journo on the go" and "I mean business" and yet also says "Hey, candidate, I've got a fun side; you can relax with me and make any number of political gaffes without fear of reprisals". Initially, I chose an ultra-sparkly number, but it screamed "I'm at a disco" a bit too much, so some kind friends gave me a campaign battle bag with extra padding to protect my brand new laptop.
You need a laptop. Not just any laptop. It must be accessible to the internet at all times, even at the Hill of Tara or on Moore Street or on a tractor. It must look swish. When you whip out an ancient, clunky laptop on the Fine Gael battle bus nobody will say anything, but you know they'll be thinking "the size of that, it's so general election 2002." So, on a whim, with someone else's credit card, you lash out a fortune for a new Apple Mac. But then you realise there is no right mouse button on these Mac things, and it totally throws you. Still, it looks very pretty.
Mints. A digital Dictaphone. Chocolate. More mints. If you are with the Greens, a bike can come in handy. A foldable one means you can even travel with Trevor Sargent on the Dart, although after splurging on the laptop you probably won't have enough money for that as well.
Finally, on the election campaign you need a thick skin. This is for when the leader of the Opposition, in a bid to come across as a rounded human being, alludes in a "jovial manner" to your fitness level. He might, for example, put his arm around you and say: "Stick with me all the way to Dingle and we'll soon have you down to fighting weight".
When he does this, you need not to get narky and you also need to resist the urge to hit him over the head with your campaign battle bag. Not hitting the candidate over the head is quite important in case he becomes Taoiseach. With everything that's gone on over the past couple of weeks you can't be too careful. Only 12 days to go before I can go back to testing lip glosses up on the fourth floor. Not that I'm counting.