DÁIL SKETCH:Whether we're cast adrift in uncharted or unchartered waters, the House is certainly all at sea, writes Miriam Lord.
TWO MILLION euro it cost and a fat lot of good the Government's Preparing for Major Emergenciesbooklet has been.
"There is no reason to think that a major emergency is likely in the immediate future," read the forward penned by one Mr B Ahern, back in the day when his Ministers still pretended to believe him.
Last April, to be precise.
"However, no matter how unlikely some of the scenarios outlined in the handbook may be, knowing that they have been planned for and knowing what to do, will provide a level of reassurance and make it easier to respond effectively in the event that one of them does in fact come to pass," Bertie assured the public.
Then calamity struck. The Lisbon Treaty was rejected and nobody had a clue what to do next.
Last Friday, it was the solemn duty of a grave Taoiseach to break the bad news to a frightened nation. No need to panic, but "we are entering uncharted waters", said Biffo.
Scores of injuries were reported as panicked householders toppled into their green bins, desperately trying to retrieve discarded copies of Preparing for Major Emergencies.
Since that apocalyptic announcement, not an hour has passed without at least one Irish politician, of whatever stripe, confirming that the nation is lost at sea.
They were at it again yesterday in the Dáil. "We are in uncharted waters," said deputy after deputy, as the House lifted and rolled during an afternoon of statements on the Lisbon Treaty. The only speakers who deviated from the line were those under the impression that we labour in "unchartered" waters.
And then there is the fallback position, favoured by all sides - "We are where we are." Which is where we have been since Friday.
Except for Micheál Martin, who was in Brussels on Monday trying to explain how the referendum was lost. He arrived into the chamber yesterday morning showing no sign of a black eye or a limp.
But back to the booklet, produced at enormous expense and launched two months ago, with no small degree of fanfare, by Minister for Defence Willie O'Dea.
Nuclear incident? Willie says: Stay inside and turn on the telly.
Flu pandemic? Stock up on food and take a few Panadol.
Flooding? Don't walk or drive through the raging deluge.
Hazardous chemical spill? Steer clear.
Lisbon Treaty rejection? Willie says: "I'm off to Chad. It's safer there."
Yesterday's debate wasn't very exciting, chiefly because all but six deputies in the Dáil are on the same side. They spoke for five hours, tossing around on the waves of the uncharted waters like inept explorers trying to find their sea legs.
The people have spoken.
The people are sovereign. (Until they have to vote again, then they will become a half-sovereign.)
We must address the democratic deficit.
Ireland is still at the heart of Europe.
(Clinging on by our fingernails, says the majority; in the driving seat, say the Lisbon Six.)
Complacency and confusion is the enemy.
We need to be allowed space and time to reflect.
We need to respect the decision of the people and analyse its implications.
Voters have sent a clear message to the political establishment.
There is no quick fix.
Feck off, yis shower of ingrates. And there you have it. Except for the last one, which was deeply felt but left unsaid.
You have to admire Martin Cullen, though. In the midst of adversity, while the country is plunged into crisis, he is the sort of man you would want by your side.
On Tuesday at 10pm, while the Dáil fretted about Ireland becoming the political outcast of Europe, Martin arrived for a vote in evening wear. Dinner jacket, gleaming white shirt, shiny shoes, bow-tie. (He is Minister for the Arts, after all.) It bucked everyone up.
Yesterday morning, Labour's Éamon Gilmore couldn't let the moment go unremarked. "I noted the Government was under significant vote pressure - so much so that Minister Cullen was forced to attend in his evening wear."
"No thanks to you," sniffed Martin.
"I thought he looked quite fetching," purred Tánaiste Mary Coughlan.
Éamon wouldn't know much about dinner jackets and stuff. In the Labour Party, they think canapés go over windows on a sunny day.
"You were in great humour in the chamber last night, but wherever you went afterwards, you're in foul humour this morning," he told the Minister.
Martin didn't enlighten him, save to retort "I thought I would raise the tone of the place." (He had been at the Business to Arts Awards in the RDS.)
For the rest of the day, Leinster House was quiet. Many, it appeared, had already taken to the lifeboats and gone home. More had packed their bags - a sizeable media contingent included - and were preparing to go to Brussels to chivvy poor Biffo along when he meets his annoyed continental colleagues.
And lo, the heavens opened and it rained and it rained on the plinth and the roof over the Dáil chamber sprang a leak.
Disconsolate politicians peered out the windows and shook their heads. Uncharted waters, and no mistake - for the middle of June.
All they need is a plague of frogs today and the national catastrophe will be complete - and that isn't in the booklet either.