He jerked awake to see Fred O'Connor standing at the foot of his bed, in his Sunday go-a-courting clothes, a smirk upon his face.
Yet even here the laws were read aloud, and it is not without significance that the last national assembly held at Tailltenn under King Rhoderic O'Connor in 1168 was a political one.
Fred O'Connor banged into the room with a look-ma-no-cavities smile on his face.
Fred O'Connor rubbed his chin and tried not to look guilty.
Two more Saturdays of garage sales passed by, far less bountiful than the summer versions of the same, but nevertheless stocked with enough alleged treasures to keep Fred O'Connor at his computer key board for hours on end.
The Fred O'Connor Cyber Cafe was unplugged from electronic connection to the world at large, as the old gentleman was taking his sweet time moving his belongings downstairs.
Mid-morning, Fred O'Connor came by, ostensibly out for a stroll, casually asking for the list of newspaper subscribers.
They were driving on Main Street when they spotted Fred O'Connor sauntering down from the courthouse chatting with two ladies who looked enthralled by his company.
Fred O'Connor was off in Mrs. Armstrong's exhaust-belching Buick, a prior commitment to a garage sale, although his heart wasn't in it.
Fred O'Connor had a sharp mind and a sharp tongue to match it.