Tom was appalled. As was just about every woman in the country. Given the nature of the controversy, most politicians would have said something about their quotes being taken out of context. Then they’d have offered a wishy-washy apology. Not Cyril. He was unrepentant. ‘The real people of Ireland know I’m talking sense,’ he said. He also pointed out that while he and Tom were part of the same alliance, he was an independent and wouldn’t be bossed around. ‘You’re not my leader,’ he said, like a seven-year-old in a school playground.

If the controversy simmered on the airwaves, it threatened to boil over online. Cyril’s opponents said this was what happened when the country was run by pale, stale males. Like Tess, they wanted him sacked. Today. An equally vociferous group supported him, dismissing his critics as the perpetually offended. A decent man was being subjected to a witch-hunt, they said. Whether he wanted it or not, Cyril Dinan had become a mascot for troglodytes everywhere. Vitriol dripped from the screen. Not for the first time, Tom was amazed by what people could write and walk away from.

Something else was nagging at him. He had thought of himself as a relatively young man. This debate, played out on social media, made him feel old. Unfamiliar terms and insults were thrown around. People used phrases like ‘identity politics’ and ‘virtue signalling’ and ‘woke’ until, frankly, he was lost.

None of this would have mattered if the government had been gelling well. It was in disarray. Cabinet meetings had turned into lengthy whinge-fests with everyone blaming everyone else for their shortcomings. Already there was talk of an early clearout of non-performing ministers. There was a famous political maxim: the worst day in power is better than the best day in opposition. This government was setting out to disprove it.

Challenging as Cyril the Dinosaur was, Tom’s main concern was Conor. Through the Templemorris bush telegraph, he’d heard about his friend visiting the garda station to look at old files. What those files were, he didn’t have to ask. In a few minutes, Conor would be here. Tom would have to flim and flam and do his best to wriggle away.