TALKING PROPERTY:I'M WORN OUT with all this high powered entertaining. It's all been so emotional and exhausting. Metaphorically, I've been cutting crusts off cucumber sandwiches and barbecuing beef burgers, wondering whether I should be curtsying or high-fiving.
Somehow, I felt personally responsible: would our streets be clean? Would our grass look green? Would the sun come out to play? It suddenly seemed so important that every image portrayed would look picture-postcard perfect.
I didn’t realise how much I’d worried about it until it was all over, our guests had left and it became clear that I hadn’t been the only one concerned.
As we watched the coverage of Obama departing the stage in Dame Street, my youngest son sighed and said, “that’s great, at least neither of them got shot or anything”, and my guess is, if you could have bottled the collective sigh of relief exhaled by pretty much everyone in the country on Monday evening, you could have powered the national grid for a decade.
It was lovely to see them, and indeed, we gave a great welcome and put on a wonderful show but, as with any guest, it’s a relief to wave goodbye, close the door and collapse into bed.
Yet on Monday evening, having basked in the aftermath of it all, along with viewers of the extended RTÉ news, I was brought down to earth by Pat Kenny's Frontlineand, by the time I'd gone to bed with my husband and Vincent (Browne, the third person in our marriage), my euphoric bubble was beginning to deflate.
When I should have been counting sheep, I was conducting an alternative whistlestop tour of Ireland with yet another visitor. The guest in question, while not of quite the same social standing as a reigning British monarch or the most powerful president in the world, might in fact have a lot more power and influence over the survival of our little nation.
My imaginary guest is a Finnish gentleman who, despite not having graced the cover of Hello! magazine, is unfortunately becoming better known by Irish citizens with each passing day: Olli Rehn, European Commissioner for Economic and Monetary Affairs.
Worn out with an endless stream of problems caused by errant nations such as Greece and Portugal, Olli was almost relieved to be visiting compliant Ireland, which would, he was sure, play ball, since he recently mentioned that a reduction of our punitive interest rates may be on the cards.
Exhausted he may have been, but as he was here to experience life in Ireland, he would have to become very familiar with sleep deprivation, so I kept him awake by reminding him of Ireland’s debt every time he looked as if he might nod off.
We started our nationwide tour of Ireland’s infamous ghost towns where, as we passed by, I pointed out items of particular interest such as the huge banners advertising “receiver prices” and hoardings surrounding unfinished apartment and office blocks.
Begging to be allowed a few hours sleep before further proceeding, I explained that it would be impossible, as each hotel we passed had long since been shut down and boarded up.
Rehn’s first official engagement was to join the end of a lengthy dole queue and wait in line like everyone else until his turn came to explain his unemployed status, despite his degree in economics, international relations and journalism, his masters in political science and his PhD from the University of Oxford in 1996 on the subject of “Corporatism and Industrial Competitiveness in Small European States”. After all, he was no better educated than many others in the same queue.
By the time he’d been spat out the far end of the system with the vague promise he might receive a few bob, he was looking a bit the worse for wear and had stopped waffling about protecting senior bond holders.
I accompanied him to the Áras to call in on our President, only to discover she’d been evicted and the property repossessed. Nevertheless, the press captured a nice image of Olli trying to pick the padlock on the gate, with a backdrop of unruly gardens and a tattered “for sale” sign at half mast.
He was, however, received cordially enough by a cheerful lineup of bankers who sang Money Makes The World Go Roundbut their rendition was drowned out by the keening and wailing of thousands of homeless protestors, bent double carrying the last of their possessions in "shell" back-packs and holding placards depicting glamorous yet faded images of the homes they once owned.
It was pointless, I just couldn’t sleep. I didn’t even hang around to wave goodbye to Rehn. Instead, I got out of bed and watched President Obama’s speech online for the umpteenth time.
He said that our best days are still ahead of us; I hope they are, but how far ahead precisely?
Back in bed again, I counted years instead of sheep.
Isabel Morton is a property consultant
