Emissions: A dark, wet night in September: our protagonist is a portly, middle-aged gent in a luminous council jacket, pacing the inside of a portakabin on the side of a road in Westmeath.
He's one of a hundred gangers around the country co-ordinating this €30 million blink-and-you'll miss it unveiling of 35,000 pristine kilometre speed signs. He's brimming with excitement. In fact, he hasn't been this excited for over 30 years, since he and his wife spent their honeymoon spotting glamorous film stars in the foothills of the Italian Alps.
At heart, he's more Milan than Mullingar, despite the ruddy chops and Irish hair. Suddenly, he's skipping about the office, barking orders down a crackling walkie-talkie to the scores of men outside, one stationed every quarter-mile, ready to whip the hoods off every new signpost in the county. It's changeover time.
Right lads, are yis ready? Ten minutes to go. Have yis all yer gear set? What's that? Why do we have to do this at night? Sure it stands to reason - we couldn't be doing it during the day. There'd be mayhem. Imagine the loodramawns hooring around at any speed they felt like. It'd be unholy carnage!
Anyway, didn't yis hear de Minister - it's to be done on one day, like the euro. This is a historic day for us poor downtrodden Gaels. We're swimming with the big fish now.
Did yis not see Bertie all this spring? President of Europe, no less! Imperious, he was. Were yis not all swelled up wit' national fervour of the highest order? Jaysus, even Mr Brennan was over there in Brussels, throwing his weight around like a young Napoleon. Glory days, lads, glory days.
Huh? A stupid plan you say? Do yis not realise the significance of it? Out from under the wing of de English, into the great cultural melting pot of the continent!
I'm not ashamed to tell yis, I'm fit to burst with delight. What's that, Jams O'Donnell? Yer fit to burst with the cold? Well, that's a small price to pay for progress isn't it? Ah, lads, c'mon, enough of that grumbling. What? Of course I'd love to be out there myself, scraping my name onto the tablets of history. But sure, as you all know, I'm a martyr to the gout.
Anyway, there'll be a great feed waiting when yis get back, I promise ye that.
Christ, MacCruiskeen, will ya ever get a bit of sophistication? Easi-singles and rashers on a sliced pan, me arse! It's pecorino and prosciutto on foccaccia now. I've got duck confit, tapas, stuffed vine leaves, feta cheese, sauerkraut and antipasti of all manner.
And no, Collopy, there's no bottles of stout, although by the sounds of you, you've a head start in that department already.
I've liberated a stash of fine Bordeaux, Trappist beer, schnapps, ouzo and grappa from that Commissioners' meeting in Portlaoise. And a nice big frothy latte for you, Collopy, ye hooligan.
Whaddyis think of that, eh lads? Who says I don't look after yis!
Right, Enough yapping! It's time. Ready? Five, four, three, two, one! Whip 'em off!
All done? Fair play to yis, one and all, I'm blubbering like a Eurovision winner. I'll see ye back here in half an hour. We'll have a celebration that'd put the Germans and their Berlin Wall shenanigans to shame!
Yer what? Off where? To Murphy's for late pints and bags of cheese and onion? But what about the food, the drink? The bratwurst, the chorizo? I can do what with them? Well, I never heard the likes of it, ye philistines. Pearls before swine, pearls before swine!
Fade to black, leaving our hero alone to weep into his Asti Spumante and dream of those long balmy nights on the shores of Lake Como.
"Dem were de days, eh Sophia?" he sighs wistfully into the darkness. His wife's name is Kathleen.
