No writing or reading done this week. Endless chores and errands, managing other people's needs, the fucking insurrection. There was a whiff of the wildly fictive to the scenes unfolding on telly: the feral-eyed mostly white men in furs and tactical gear, waving poles and baseball bats and flags of disgraced regimes, seemed like actors in a deranged, alternative history, and we were watching from our armchairs, fixed in fury, dismay, and disbelief.

Watching CNN, I knew a certain man was also watching the same channel, viewing the scenes as if they were part of a movie, in which he was the star, screenwriter, and director. But it did not pan out in the way he had hoped. He had set things in motion, but he was no God. Life wasn't a mediocre movie, something he had seen on screens playing out to a predictable end.

Meanwhile there was Donie O'Sullivan, CNN reporter and Kerry man, calmly walking about as if he had seen worse in the aftermath of a music festival, deftly dodging thugs as he analysed the culture of disinformation and conspiracy theories that had led to this extraordinary moment. Irish Twitter burst out in appreciation for Donie, and there were even interviews of his proud parents in their humble home in Cahersiveen.

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