Slick hardly begins to describe it. So dazzling is the parade of McAleese posters lining the route into Cork city that radio callers denounce the display running the full length of a flyover as a dangerous distraction and worry they will be felled by one.
So strong is the scent of victory that a police escort can somehow be conjured up for the breakneck run between shopping centres. Hazard lights flashing and siren blaring, it waves traffic aside and dismisses stop lights to get the Government candidate and her unmarked cars to her date with destiny, via the shoppers of Ballyvolane and Wilton.
"Jeez, if they're prepared to do this for Fianna Fail, what'll they get up to for Derek Nally, one of their own?" exclaimed an awed citizen.
You have to be fast to keep up with Mary McAleese. Half a dozen Fianna Failers stood happily in the rain at Ballyvolane, a light in their eye and pride in every step as they moved forward to greet their candidate. Former TD and minister of state and current director of elections for Cork North Central Denis Lyons ("We didn't take one seat, we took two") was cheer-leader for the occasion.
But she hardly needed one. The style is to charge forward, hand out, and leave them laughing. There are handshakes, touches, a pat on the back, a word for everyone, their situation assessed in seconds and suitably commented upon.
"How're ya doin'? Nice to meet ya," she says, claiming responsibility for bringing the torrential rain with her ("Dublin emptied last night") and promising to bring it away with her (watch out Kerry).
To woman with huge cream cake who comments wryly on the calories: "Oh my God," says the candidate, apparently awestruck, "you're hiding them."
To woman with two little boys: "Two boys? I've only the one son - I wish I had more. They're very affectionate."
To woman who says her shopping is a break from the housework: "I'm having one too - slightly longer than I anticipated."
To woman heading for the exit, hands full of shopping bags: "Beware the rain. It's bucketing outside."
To women relaxing over tea: "Great to have a cup of tea. Well, enjoy it. God bless."
To woman selecting vegetables for a stew: "I wish I had time to shop but I haven't. God bless."
Even when she drops a clanger, such as describing a child dressed entirely in pink as "a fine wee boy you have there," she recovers rapidly: "I used to dress my daughter head to toe in pink and people would say that's a lovely wee boy - used to drive me mad."
Though she rarely asks straight out for a vote, it happens. To the woman who confessed that her vote was going to Adi Roche, "the local girl": "Of course, of course - she's local. Will you give me your number two?" she presses gently, hand resting lightly on the shoulder.
There were dissenters, of course. A shop assistant who asked if she was tired ("I'm bearin' up rightly") admitted to reservations once she was out of sight: "I had four Fianna Fail men trying to persuade me - but I asked them why should I vote for someone coming down from the North?"
And a young Bantry woman on work experience wondered why they bothered: "I can't vote because I won't get home. Yes, we heard you can get it by post or something but we don't know what to do."
Meanwhile, back in the checkout queues, they clamoured to shake her hand, smiling brightly at her, admiring her, noting that everything about her carried the aura of a winner. Dressed in a slim, soft brown jacket and black trousers, her extra tall heels raised her well above average height.
"Aye, she has presence," said an admirer.
"Ah jaze, she's a fine lookin' bird all right," said a butcher to Denis Lyons and Denis beamed like a besotted father.
As she hurled herself into a newsagents and stood chatting by the Lotto stand, a Fianna Fail woman sighed: "That's where all our dreams are now - Mary McAleese and the Lotto."
