Slowly, reluctantly, he switched off his PC, rose from his desk and falteringly shuffled the long distance towards the door.

A few moments earlier, one of the porters, Paddy, had nodded his head. ‘Yer wantin’ uppah 'bove’, he said, with a slightly upraised eyebrow and a jab of a nicotine stained finger. Paddy had been across North Africa with Monty and the Desert Rats and had seen a thing or two. Instinct told him when a field court martial was in the offing.

He padded his wary way through the veritable warren of reporters’ and sub-editors’ desks, trying in vain not to inhale the fetid smell of unclean socks, cheap aftershave and latté coffee. Up the interminable flights of narrow stairs he climbed and along the narrow corridor that runs parallel to the unsuspecting multitudes on D’Olier Street. Through the windows, he saw that the early darkness of a rainy February day had set in and lights sparkled in buses, shops and cars.

Past the old Major’s neo-Edwardian office suite, now sadly mothballed, where once, every morning, a porter lit a real coal fire before the Major arrived in his Bentley. Past Superintendent Brady’s Executive Washroom, where the great man once indulged his ablutions at least three times a day.

On past the tightly closed door to the office of the Commercial Prima Donna Herself. Unknown to him, inside the office, the Commercial Prima Donna was standing in front of a full-length mirror appraising her reflection. She pulled the brocaded silk of her Louise Kennedy jacket more tightly around her, to flatter her ample bosom to better effect. Her well-manicured fingers smoothed the tight, silken material caressing her generous hips. Satisfied, she pirouetted and minced her way back to her desk, to the ‘shush, shush’ sound of her LeJaby lingerie and Givenchy hosiery, to sit down and begin appraising the next quarter’s revenue projections.

After that was the gloomy Board Room, where the ‘suits’ and the great and good of the Trust sometimes held their interminable meetings over lunch.

At last, he reached the great oaken door at the end of the long corridor. Timidly, he knocked. No response. This time, he knocked more loudly. A high pitched voice, through the door, said ‘Cooome Een, please!’. He fumbled at the brass handle and almost fell in the door.

Ms. Gee-Gee The Pee-Dee was seated at her immense desk. The room was in complete darkness, save for a pool of yellow light thrown by a solitary desk lamp. It was one of those ones you sometimes see in a bank that is trying to look respectable - brass with a little green shade - or in one of those hideously refurbished pubs off Dame Street or in Temple Bar. You can also buy them in the Argos catalogue. ‘Maybe that’s where she got it?’, he mused idly.

Ms. Gee-Gee the Pee-Dee was a picture of intense concentration. Her brows furrowed, her tongue protruded a little bit onto her upper lip as her forefinger laboriously traced the words in the book she was studying, silently mouthing the words. It was the ‘Magill Guide to the February 1987 Election’. Any time she felt a bit down, it cheered her up to examine again the results from Dún Laoghaire. That marvellous moment in the Seventh Count, when her running mate's transfer of 4,219 votes had finally propelled her over the quota and into the Dáil.

After what seemed like an agonising eternity, but in reality was probably only a minute or two, he cleared his throat, snapped his fingers to his forehead and bellowed: ‘Subaltern My-Erse reporting Madam Sah!’ He cursed himself for having his worn his Hush Puppies that day, since they didn’t really make the ‘snap to’ sound he wanted to achieve, but he thought he looked reasonably well in his second hand Irish Guards fatigues, bought online from ‘MilitaryKit.com’

After another long delay, Ms. Gee-Gee the Pee-Dee put the Magill book to one side and glanced up. ‘Ah, it’s you My-Erse’, she said disdainfully. ‘I’m not happy about that column of yours. Slipped through the system. Pressure of work and all that. There’s hell to pay. I’m afraid I’ll have to punish you … severely’.

‘But, Mam! Sah!’, he spluttered disconsolately.

‘No, no, I’ve made up my mind. I’m taking you off the column and transferring you to GAA reporting for a while until this thing dies down’, snapped Ms. Gee-Gee the Pee-Dee. ‘You can start with the Wicklow against Louth game in Aughrim, next Sunday’.

‘Oh please, no! Not that!’, he pleaded. ‘I just couldn’t stand all those big, hairy, nasty GAA types … all smelling of ‘Winter Green’ … and the rain pouring in on top of the Press Box… And then those dweadful, dweadful people on the GAA Desk … That awful Seán Moran always wabbiting on about whether Annaduff will beat Barnacoola in the Leitrim championship … that awful Keith Duggan with his smart-aleck comments … and … and … that Tom Humphries fellow spilling Tayto crisps all over his keyboard and droning on and on about the St. Vincent’s under-12 camogie team…’

‘No. It’s done. I’ve decided’, replied Ms. Gee-Gee the Pee-Dee. ‘It’s Aughrim next Sunday or nothing. Now go! And shut the door quietly after you’.

Crestfallen, he turned on his heel and narrowly avoided tripping over the corner of the luxurious Axminster carpet. Tears of anger and frustration welled in his eyes as he left the august office.

‘Covering beastly GAA matches every Sunday’, he muttered. ‘Now that really is a bastard!’