Dáil Sketch:The spirit of the blitz enveloped Leinster House yesterday. Deputies huddled together in their evacuation shelter, a place formerly known as the Members' Bar.
The air was thick with rumour. The suspense was terrible. Nobody knew precisely when the battle order would issue, but they were certain it would be sometime in the afternoon.
Pots of tea were consumed. Stiffeners ordered.
Those who will play no part in the forthcoming action emerged from the comforting confines of the shelter with regular bulletins.
They said deputies were shaking hands and wishing each other the best. Old enmities were forgotten as they prepared to march to the front. All in the same boat now. Things can get very emotional.
In the morning Leinster House was relatively calm. The Taoiseach was in Monaghan for breakfast. The consensus was that he would not dissolve the 29th Dáil before Tuesday at the earliest.
Then something happened. Somebody said something to someone, who passed it on to somebody else, and suddenly the whole place went on high alert.
Rumour fed rumour, politicians talking to journalists talking to staff talking to politicians.and nobody having a clue.
Apparently Bertie had barely touched a rasher before hopping into a helicopter and hightailing it back to Dublin. He remained closeted in his constituency headquarters for hours.
Another helicopter set things off again. This time it landed at Government Buildings. Tánaiste McDowell returning from an engagement in Tipperary.
Dáil secretaries passed in the corridors and wished each other luck. Journalists laid siege to the plinth, and people who never seemed to smoke before started buying packs of 20.
Outside the restaurant a serving minister and a former minister in the rainbow coalition swapped funny stories about how Ministers are given a few hours to pack up their stuff and ship out of their offices.
"I left a little note for the man who came after me," recalled the Rainbow Minister.
"It's like the fall of Vietnam," said the current incumbent, and they both sighed.
The real heroes of the day worked on regardless. Dáil porters wheeled out trolley loads of envelopes and helped deputies to fill the boots of their cars.
Bertie was still in St Luke's, reportedly giving interviews to a number of Sunday newspapers. More proof. Someone said Charlie Bird thought it was all over. Charlie was in Tipperary. Hysteria was taking hold.
At lunchtime word went around like wildfire that the political correspondents were tipped off to be on the press gallery at 2.30pm. This was gospel. Also untrue, but all reason had gone by now.
But across the city in Drumcondra a young reporter from Newstalk was outside St Luke's with his microphone. Bertie bustled out to the Merc.
"Are you going to dissolve the Dáil?"
And Bertie replied sweetly: "Oh, eventually."
The reporter persisted. "Are you going to do it now?"
"No, I'm not."
"Not today?"
"No."
That's that so. A typed transcript of the exchange was demanded and duly produced.
A Fianna Fáil deputy who is not contesting the election took the transcript to show the gibbering deputies huddled in the evacuation shelter. He emerged five minutes later with the news that they were refusing to believe it.
Donie Cassidy appeared outside with enough stationary to sink a battleship. Ready for the campaign? It's well under way, said Donie.
"You don't fatten the beast on the way to the mart!"
A top level Government adviser - who knew nothing - said it was still possible to call the election and hold it on May 17th.
Paddy Powers had stopped taking bets for May 17th, declared a passing usher.
The giddiness grew. 2.30pm passed. But then, five minutes later, when Minister Tom Parlon was due to speak in the House but hadn't arrived, deputies lost the plot. They emerged from their shelter and galloped to the Chamber, certain that Bertie was due. He didn't appear, Tom did, and they trembled their way back down the stairs.
Two priests were seen standing outside the Chamber doors. "Delivering the last rites to the 29th Dáil," sniffed a deputy on the endangered list.
Matters calmed down for a while when it was reported that Mr McDowell said nothing was going to happen. Then the place collapsed again as newsdesks were alerted that Taoiseach Ahern was on his way to Holles Street to see his daughter Georgina, who was leaving hospital after giving birth to twins. Photographers were scrambled. Visions of Bertie wheeling the incubators up Merrion Street came to mind.
The photographers waited, but Bertie never turned up.
Former attorney general Harry Whelehan was seen walking through the hall. Harry was a player in the fall of Albert Reynolds' government. The sight of him gave palpitations to TDs who thought about going home.
Meanwhile, word was relayed from Tipperary that Charlie Bird didn't think the election was going to be called. Charlie, knowing as much as everyone else, which was nothing.
Finally, as the clock edged past 5pm, desperate journalists decided to relieve the tension by piling on to the press gallery. Just for the laugh. We understand oxygen was required down in the evacuation centre. Minister Martin, who was on his feet, looked up and nearly swallowed his briefing notes.
And no. Nothing happened. Unlike Bertie's twin grandsons, there's going to be nothing premature about this general election. The gestation period is now of elephantine proportions.
The ISPCP (Irish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Politicians) has set up an emergency helpline. Bertie's backbenchers are in flitters. We fear for their sanity.