IN the VIP lounge at Dublin Airport, we witness some verbal locking of horns between our local security boys and Fergie's, subject ourselves to two bag searches and a "sweep" and, finally, are led into the presence of a somewhat wind-blown Duchess, fresh off the private jet from a thousand triumphant book signings in Belfast ("Belfast beat Harrods, actually").
"You've got me at a bad time", she says a touch gloomily, pulling her fringe into place for our photographer, proceeding to stand somewhat diffidently by the Christmas tree without being asked - every bit the obedient schoolgirl trying hard to please.
This is alarming. Where is the "gung-ho, good old Fergie-fool" as she is wont to describe herself - the popping eyes and funny faces and the "sickbag pulled over the head" tricks?
She fails to offer even the consolation prize of demanding some regal distance. A warm handshake is what we get instead. What we have here is a pleasant, weary-looking woman in a plain blue dress which she pulls down around her knees on the nod from the woman dressed in furry dalmatian spots.
We have about two and a half minutes to speak to a woman for whom no comment is new, no statement too intimate, a question unanswered except the one about whether or not she was ever unfaithful to her husband.
Suddenly the woman dressed as a dalmatian clicks into action: she has looked over my shoulder and spotted the words "Ruby Wax" in my notebook. Hostility fills the air.
"None of these questions, none of these questions," she snaps. "No interview", she commands, "the Duchess has to prepare for tonight". Not even a few teensy-weensy "welcome to Ireland sort of questions", we plead?
The woman backs down but we are now under sufferance. I welcome the Duchess to Ireland and she responds, talking lovingly of her horse Ballymoss and her Irish friends, Robert and Eileen Splaine.
No, she is not exhausted by the endless talking and travelling and signing. "How can you lose energy when all those people are there turning up to support me?"
And - uh - what about Ruby Wax? Any regrets? None, none at all. "I wanted to do one show which would get to the door of the public, to reach the masses, and rather than doing something very serious, I knew Ruby would be a way of doing that ... I wanted to say, `this is me'."
So, yes, this is her, having unwittingly bared her toe to the masses once before but now baring her soul on Oprah and David Lettennan and The Late Late Show.
She sits in draughty bookshops across the world, explaining away the wild and careless years with some story about a slimming injection administered in Argentina.
On Thursday, she travelled from Cardiff to Germany, yesterday from Germany to Belfast, then from Belfast to Dublin.
Today, she visits the National Children's Hospital in Harcourt Street ("because I have two lovely, healthy children") and the Hospice in Harold's Cross. The Duchess will also have private visits with friends including Robert Splaine.
She will sign copies of her book,
My Story, from noon at Eason's, O'Connell Street. She will attract those who want to see a live duchess but they will leave commenting only on her Hello!-type familiarity band that ordinariness that will ultimately kill any remaining celebrity chat might cling to her.
For all her silly wrongheadedness, most people who meet her will find themselves wishing her well.
