Waiting for Auntie Mary

Vitali Vitaliev found Thursday's presidential inauguration of Mary McAleese a mixture of a church liturgy, a chamber music concert and a country wedding.

Having (accidentally) attended the inauguration ceremony of Mary McAleese last Thursday, I discovered that:

a) Ireland has a President;

b) the President is a woman;

c) she has been elected (or rather "re- elected", as it was put by Bertie) to this post.

Well, after six weeks in this country I knew about Bertie, of course, although I am still having difficulties with spelling the word "Taoiseach", which I tend to pronounce as "T-Shirt" – please excuse me if I am wrong.

This in itself is huge progress, compared to most of my London friends, who firmly believe that Ireland is part of the UK (as proof they quote a sign at Heathrow airport mentioning "Flights to Ireland and other UK destinations") and hence its head of state is the Queen, or "Auntie Dillie" – as my three-year-old son used to call her, for no obvious reason.

I now know for sure that in Ireland it is not "Auntie Dillie", but "Auntie Mary".

As for the presidential elections, I must have missed them while on an assignment abroad in Cork last weekend.

When the editor spotted me and said I should attend the inauguration in half an hour I tried to object, saying that there was not enough time to change into my tails, moreover that I didn't have any. But he assured me it didn't matter, and there I was – running across the courtyard of Dublin Castle to pick up my accreditation – in my T-shirt, with a shameful logo "Sharkie" across the chest.

I didn't notice how I suddenly became the centre of attention. Having inadvertently stepped onto the red carpet (it was hard to avoid it, for it covered half of the courtyard), I got a loud ovation from the crowds waiting for "Auntie Mary" – mostly schoolkids, happy to be away from school. They must have taken me for Bertie, because of my "T-Shirt", I assumed.

I joined the kids who were greeting every arriving dignitary with shouts and applause. My problem was that I had no idea what Mary McAleese looked like. There were some posh women arriving in posh cars and I was worried I would miss her.

"Who is that lady?" I asked a girl in red school uniform standing next to me. Instead of replying, she turned around and shouted to someone in the crowd, probably her teacher: "Mrs Murphy, who is that lady?"

Mrs Murphy didn't know either...

I looked at the schedule, kindly given to me at the press office. Bertie (the real one) was supposed to arrive at 11.35. It was 11.36, and he was not there yet. Then he suddenly arrived – in two cars at once!

From where I stood I had a great view of a huge TV screen in the corner of the castle yard. The screen was showing Mary, the quietly re-elected President, leaving her residence and driving (or rather being driven in a Rolls Royce) to where we were. She was scheduled to arrive at 11.40 a.m., but was actually four minutes late: her motorcade must have got stuck in the traffic.

Eventually, I found myself in the crowded press gallery, right under the ceiling of St Patrick's Hall, and was peeping out from behind the backs of some burly photographers. Why are all photographers so tall and broad-shouldered?

I could not see Mary or Bertie, but had a good view of the lady who was translating the proceedings into sign language, which I – unfortunately – didn't understand.

By the sounds of it, the ceremony was a mixture of a church liturgy, a chamber music concert and a country wedding. I could hear the speeches, but there was no real need to listen, for all of us (including Mary and Bertie) had been given their texts in advance.

There was one moment, however, when I regretted not being able to see the proceedings: when they announced that Mary was being "formally presented with a presidential seal". It must have been an old Viking (or Celtic) custom – presenting a warrior with a live Arctic mammal.

I hoped Mary's bath was big enough to accommodate her new/old pet for seven more years. Sadly, the seal itself – just like all of us – had no say in that matter.