THE WHITE House is a funny place. Last week while President Robinson was in town, the new Irish Times correspondent was in and out of the White House as if it were the Dail bar on a quiet Monday.
At the start of the Oval Office meeting between the two presidents, I stood near enough to Bill Clinton to see how bloodshot his eyes were after a heavy week and a scary incident on Air Force One.
I could even look down on the incipient bald spot of Vice President Al Gore where he sat, beside the President.
Alas, such intimacy was short lived. Last Tuesday was the annual White House garden party for the press and their guests, about 3,000 people. An official marshalled us into lines.
"Have your invitation ready and your driving licence for photo ID," he ordered. It so happened that the previous day I had actually passed my driving test and had a shiny new licence. So no problem.
But there was a huge problem. Although I had been assured that I would be on the list and actually had an invitation, I was not on the list so was requested to step aside into the limbo area with others who were waiting while the Secret Service "ran a check".
From the South Lawn, the music of the Marine Band wafted over and the usual media feeding frenzy was under way. But in limbo things were not looking too good. Not content with Irish passports and Maryland driving licence, the Secret Service was looking for my social security number.
The problem was that I do not yet have one. It has been applied for and is probably in the post. Not good enough where the security of POUS (secret service jargon for the President) is concerned.
Gradually, all other suffering souls were released from limbo to the fleshpots, and The Irish Times was left languishing. If only President Robinson or Brid Rosney were there to wave the magic wand. At last an agent emerged waving my passport. "You Irish?" he asked. Have a look at this and he showed his own credentials. "Matthew Driscoll, from Cork," he added proudly. "You can go in."
Then Hail to the Chief sounded, and Bill and Hillary arrived. He was in party gear, raspberry coloured sport's shirt and khaki slacks.
Hillary did a little introductory speech and handed over to the President, who dedicated the party to those of the White House press, whose food ended up in faces when Air Force One hit a thunderstorm last week.
Soon afterwards another thunderstorm broke, and everyone dashed for cover. Bill and Hillary disappeared down a covered walkway back to the White House followed at a respectable distance by this correspondent, who did not realise that this was not the way he had come in.
Suddenly he was standing in sodden suit in the diplomatic reception room with the First Couple, the ubiquitous secret service agents and a few aides. Too late to go back. Just brazen it out and remember that Matthew Driscoll contact from Cork as they close in.
Just then the sodden Kid Creole and the Coconuts, a rock group, dashed in. They sashayed over to the President and began posing with him for photographs. Heidi Bjerre, with shapely legs a mile long ink hot pants, got a special presidential welcome.
Kid Creole confided to The Irish Times that the group had played at the Clinton inaugural. "But so had hundreds of other bands," he said modestly.
As everyone else had their picture taken with Bill, I reckoned it was my turn. Advancing through the Coconuts, I took the plunge. "You might wonder what I am doing here," I began, "but I'm the new gay from The Irish
The Coconuts laughed. "We thought he was Secret Service." The President also thought it was funny.
Posing for the photograph, he asked how things were going in Ireland after the Manchester bombing. He seemed depressed about it.
Then it was time for the Clintons to head to their private quarters. The Coconuts and I headed for the other exit. For an evening that started badly, it had worked out fairly well in the end.
Funny place, the White House. They keep you waiting for an hour, run out of plates and then you get to chat with Kid Creole and Bill Clinton.