Kathy Sheridan in O'Connell Street: Easter Rising iconography found a fresh image yesterday. It took the form of the Special Branch type with the regulation dark suit, shades and vigorous chewing gum action, standing bang in front of the iconic GPO pillars.
Splay-legged, hands clasped in classic secret service mode across his stomach, jaws rotating manfully, he provided an apt, 21st-century Ireland backdrop for the reading of the 90-year-old Proclamation. "We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland . . .".
They should have been spine-tingling moments - the national colours lowered to half mast, the stirring notes of Mise Éire, the wreath-laying ceremony, the minute silence, the playing of the Last Post. But what with Special Branch Man masticating across from us on the right and a whole gallery of iconic political faces to our left, not excluding Sinn Féin's Arthur Morgan (looking a touch de-energised) and Ivor Callely - who had arrived bearing that other modern icon, the takeaway coffee - it was a challenge to stay in the moment.
The surroundings, basically several large viewing galleries in a building site with a smallish space for the ceremonies, were not exactly conducive to reflection.
Military honours were rendered to the Minister for Defence, the Lord Mayor and An Taoiseach (fetching in a navy, Jose Mourinho-style overcoat) with much ceremony and clashing of cymbals, against a background of Penneys' grafitti-ed shutters, a clutch of telephone kiosks and some crash barriers.
But the crowd's collective heart was stirred. The raising of the national flag to full mast and the playing of the national anthem, rendered with notable spirit by the Minister for Justice among a mostly mouth-moving Cabinet, were greeted with powerful applause.
After that we got into the military parade, which did exactly what it said on the tin, beginning with Defence Forces personnel marching past with flags, including the Starry Plough and Old Republican colours. These were followed by the Parade Commander, Brig Gen Gerry McNamara GOC, standing sternly in a sort of flat-bed Land Rover/Generalmobile, clearly intent on accepting the surrender of the city.
Mercifully, he merely saluted the President, Cabinet and an array of former taoisigh.
After that the mood moved into a kind of friendly St Patrick's Day parade and it's fair to say that if the male media over the following hour and a quarter was any guide, it was not the lads and lassies in their camouflage gear and kit bags that stirred the soul, but the very big guns.
The guns, it's fair to say, came in infinite variety, beginning with the 25-pounder artillery pieces used for 21-gun salutes, moving on to 105mm models, capable of knocking a chap dead 17kms away.
A couple of sprightly bands moved to welcome each fresh section, marching in a loop before returning to greet yet another row of Mowag armoured personnel carriers (though the army chose not to delight us with all 65 of its Mowags).
We gazed upon the massive Aardvark Flair for de-mining missions, the cars marked Nissan Patrol, a thing called The Beast for removing broken-down vehicles, several varieties of heavy machine guns, an anti-tank missile and, best of all, an enormous special reconnaissance vehicle, equipped with a couple of massive guns and sinister-looking elite Rangers, their faces blacked out with dark glasses, netting and balaclavas.
It was at this point that Trevor Sargent, leader of the Greens, turned to Arthur Morgan and cheerily declared : "There you are, Arthur, the Provos don't have a monopoly on balaclavas." Mr Morgan was at pains to point out that, in fact, balaclavas have also been decommissioned, reports Mr Sargent. It's only fair to say that this was Mr Morgan's second Easter outing in two days, which may account for his lack of interest at times.
When the parade finished off with six rather nice horses from the Army equitation school, complete with their enormous horsebox plus a fly-past of aircraft, two young Catalans from Barcelona - Marcelli and Joan - professed themselves extremely happy with it all.
"Of course we are happy - we are Catalan. It is great the Fianna Fáil proclaims its Irish patriotism and nationality with this military parade," exclaimed Joan with a big grin.
"In fact, we came to see Gerry Adams, but when we asked one of the official men where he was, this man took my arm very firmly and said 'this is only for the Government'."
Among the stars in the relatives' section was 92-year-old Jesuit priest Fr Joseph Mallin, (named after a "Fenian terrorist" called Hickey dating from 1867), the son of Michael Mallin.
Michael Mallin, who was second in command of the Irish Citizen Army, was executed on May 8th, 1916, for his involvement in the Rising.
Fr Mallin, only two-years-old when his father died, is careful to point out that Michael was "in the Citizen Army, with Connolly . . . Connolly had tremendous concern for the people."
Among all shades of the audience, the outing was an undiluted success. Parents explained to children that this was a peacekeeping army.
A young female Garda felt honour was satisfied after too long hiding our Army's light under a bushel.
Politicians who had expressed reservations earlier in the week were choosing their words more carefully by evening.
"I enjoyed the day," said Enda Kenny, talking fondly of the earlier small gathering in Kilmainham Gaol, where Fr Mallin had stood outside his father's old cell.
"The parade was a great showpiece for the army, confined exclusively to the Army and the military," the Fine Gael leader said carefully.
"The commemorations 10 years from now will be on a much broader scale than we saw today."