Yes, shamefully, I did immediately look myself up in the index, since I had known Mary Robinson (née Bourke) when we were both young feminists in Dublin in 1970. Indeed, she sat in my Dublin flat sharing ‘conscious-raising’ sessions, and I published one of the first political interviews with her — which has been cited in all previous biographies of the lady.
Our paths, to say the least, have diverged. She became President of Ireland (and annoyingly, a very good one), and has graduated to being one of the world’s great panjandrums, UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, with 49 honorary doctorates from universities all over the globe and honours from half a dozen countries, including the Presidential Medal of Freedom bestowed by President Obama. While I am just an ageing journo still trying to turn a dollar for a living. The only point of comparison I could make in my own favour is that I am possibly more fun to have a drink with, even sober.
As it happens, I do not appear in the index of Mrs Robinson’s memoir, which may be for the best, since of late I have not always written kindly about her: she has never disclosed how much she has earned from the taxpayer, Irish and global, throughout her distinguished career; and money goes noticeably unmentioned in this recollection. She must qualify for at least two Irish pensions, as former President and former Senator, which should be worth at least €150,000 annually, for starters.
But then Mary has always lived in a milieu above us all: when it was arranged that she should appear in Hello!, as the presidential candidate in 1990, she admits that she had never heard of the magazine, let alone devoured it for news of Princess Diana like the rest of us.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in