On the canvass:Johnstown Primary School. 8am. Oisín Quinn hits the morning wearing a red woolly cap and a dark overcoat to fend off the unseasonal drizzle. He is carrying a large sandwich board which in turn carries a large picture of himself, writes Tom Humphries.
With the mad hat, the dark skies and the sandwich board you expect him to warn you that the end is nigh. Instead, he excuses himself as he goes searching for a good spot on which to plant the sandwich board.
Since he began canvassing last September his usual morning haunt has been the Dart stations, flitting in and out among the commuter rush spreading the message of change and the reminder that his battle for the fifth and final seat in Dún Laoghaire could be a key instrument of change.
His difficulty is that Labour already has a seat in the constituency, Eamon Gilmore is very solid and safe in the working-class areas. Oisín has to forage in leafier glades.
This morning he is trying his hand with the school gate canvass. He's done a few of these and notices that if he meets and greets a few people in the morning and then canvasses the area later in the day, he not only gets a good handle on the nitty-gritty issues, but meets the same faces again.
It pays off, he reckons. The persistent localness of politics rewards the persistent local politician, even if Dún Laoghaire is the sort of place where candidates are expected to supply their breeding record along with a manifesto. Barry Andrews, Fiona O'Malley and Mary Hanafin are all sitting TDs and, to the list of thoroughbreds at the starting post, Oisín Quinn, nephew of Ruarí, is now added.
This is his first time over the gallops for a general election, but canvassing has been a part of his life since he was a child. "I was in boarding school for the three elections back in 1981-1982 but remember talking to teachers about them. Then in 1987 I canvassed for Ruairí. I have a clear memory of being at a polling station on election day and having been told that people have their minds made up on their way in to vote, so to look for preferences.
"My mantra for the day was please remember Ruairí Quinn in your preferences. I realised after a while that there were two big Fianna Fáilers further on behind me saying to people, remember Ruairí Quinn in your prayers. It was a hard election for Labour, but Ruairí was able to hang on and so was Barry Desmond, who got a lot of flak at that time."
Filled with energy, Oisín buzzes away off into the boys' half of the school in search of the principal, Neil Cadogan. When he emerges he has confirmation of a hot local issue. Due to the unco-ordinated nature of school waiting lists and the local belief that a boy must go to Willow Park if he is to stand a chance of getting into Blackrock College, the handsome primary school here in Johnstown was down six or seven pupils in its intake this year.
This means that the school is facing losing a teacher for next year, which means it will be forced to amalgamate third-year and fourth-year classes. Some children will be split from friends they made the first day at school.
They will sit in a class of 37 pupils. And they will face a teacher who is asked to teach the third-class syllabus and the fourth-class syllabus simultaneously. And all this on Mary Hanafin's patch of earth. Paydirt!
It's getting on for nine before the crowds come. For the election Oisín got about 5,000 pens made up with his name on them and standing at the school gate beside a large picture of himself while giving out free pens and stickers makes him something of an instant celebrity.
The kids buzz in and out of the school gate like ants in a nest. First a pen, please. Then a sticker. Then an election leaflet. Then an Oisín Quinn signature on the leaflet.
"I have to talk to your mums and dads," says the candidate apologetically to the voters of 2017. "I'll be back after the election and sign loads! Can you guys wait a few weeks?!" When he breaks away to the adults who linger, the school issue is hot, though. Mary Hanafin was at the neighbouring church last Sunday before word broke of the school issue. "Damn cheek," says one woman. "Brass neck," says another.
The Minister is opening a block of five classrooms in the school next Monday. "We'll be there," say the mothers, "we'll all be there."
Oisín takes names and makes notes. Offers critiques of the "blunt instrument" which is the Department of Education's pupil-teacher ratio system. Nods a lot. Fish. Barrel. Shooting.
The other issues are of a kind. Health and the perceived decline of Loughlinstown hospital. "The paediatric services have dwindled away," Oisín Quinn says.
"Yes, we get sent down to Tallaght now," says a mother.
Another woman watched her mother stricken with pneumonia sit in a hard chair in St Vincent's hospital for seven hours before taking her home again.
Transport. Parking. Clamping in Dún Laoghaire town centre. Dún Laoghaire.
The slow progress of Kilboggan Park. Traffic lights at Watson Avenue.
"Where is the planning? You have to lead by planning." Oisín says mournfully several times.
Just over a week left. The children are sucked into the school like particles into a vortex. The last of the school-run mothers drift away. It's 9.20.
Oisín Quinn gathers up the sandwich board and retrieves his red hat and dark coat. The early bird . . .