Don't call me, I'll call you. Maybe. After the coming week. For the coming week, I'll be incapable of a gram of gravitas or a smidgeon of solemnity. And hold the controversy, too.
The reason is the Galway Races. Always a highlight of the year, Galway Race Week quite simply gets better and better. It's one of those rare social events that attracts high society as well as Joe and Josephine Bloggs. Where you feel equally comfortable in a Paul Costelloe designer outfit or a cheap Tshirt and shorts.
The competitions for, say, the best dressed person are much more fun and much less competitive than you'd expect, not least because the photographers and TV camera operators at the races for the week tend to contribute to the warmth of the occasion.
But of course, I hear you say, Geoghegan-Quinn will probably give out dog's abuse to any photographer who comes near her, after all the fuss she gave out about media invasion. I didn't. But that brings me to Dr Garret FitzGerald's column, on this page, a couple of weeks ago. He pointed out that, contrary to regular newspaper reiterations, he had never apologised for or withdrawn his famous "flawed pedigree" comment.
Dr FitzGerald might as well whisper statistics into a full gale as hope his disavowal will stick. Perception, these days, is nine tenths of the law. If public perception says you did it, then you did it. Never mind the reality, feel the received wisdom. So Garret Fitzgerald will find himself, again and again, figuring in print and in radio commentary as having apologised for something he's not sorry for.
The misperception may be about a greatly more serious and painful issue, but it does have something in common with the wonderful apocryphal account of Mark Killilea, in his first weeks as an MEP, coming down to breakfast at a shared table in his Brussels hotel.
The report has the other man at the table greeting him civilly with bon appetit, and Killilea, in response, extending a hand across the table for a handshake and responding: "Mark Killilea."
It happened, all right. But Mark Killilea it wasn't. Not that it bothers him. On the other hand, isn't it ironic that at a time when we are standing under a Niagara Falls of data, transmitted by the most sophisticated communications technology ever, rumour, gossip or absolute lies are more likely than in the past to make it into the public arena and become crystalised as fact, not only in the minds of readers/viewers/listeners, but in the minds of journalists as well?
Here we are, covered in PCs, palm-tops, pagers and mobile phones, gaining speed as we thunder down the Mis-Information Superhighway. Presumably as a way of coping with the constant influx of information, we select and store the most exciting, amusing or scandalous bits to store and certify within our long-term memory as "The Truth".
Sometimes, I suspect, we select and store without fully reading it first. But having selected and stored it as truth, we are reluctant to let go or have it amended by the contradictory evidence: Don't bother us with the facts, we've made up our minds.
Not that facts of any kind are going to be much on the mind of people attending the Galway races this coming week. It's not about facts. It's about warmth, welcome and fun for everybody.
I first became aware of Galway Racesthrough my mother, who had the odd flutter during race week. It seemed to me in those years that Galway Races were about two people - Jim Dreaper, the trainer, and Pat Taaffe, the jockey. They always seemed to win.
Later when I became a politician I have wonderful memories of the late Stevie Coughlan (Labour TD and bookie), publicly slagging off politicians of all colours while at the same time inviting each of them to place a decent bet. He never did well out of me - the sum total of my gambling is a pound each way on the tote.
Everyone has a dead cert at the races and everyone's tip is different. Politicians are somehow expected to have the inside track always and are forever being asked to recommend a horse. Last year, I was talking to a friend beside one of the bookies when along comes a well-known businessman, who places a £20,000 bet on a particular horse to win.
I was tempted briefly to give the name of the horse to other people, thereby contributing to my personal mystique and to the myth that politicians know about horses. Something distracted me, which was just as well, because the horse fell at the fourth fence.
Gone was the horse and the man's £20,000. Gone, too, would have been my credibility as a judge of horseflesh. I went home that night wondering if someone could sue you for a bad betting tip.
Galway Races have changed for the better over the years - the race committee has invested a lot of money upgrading facilities. We now have the relatively new phenomenon of the hospitality suites - the really posh way to enjoy the races. Food, drink and even your own personal tote all in one marquee - most civilised.
The three-card trick man is still in evidence, promising riches beyond belief, if you would only take the chance. Colour is added by the women with prams full of fruit and chocolates, and of course, a strong Dublin accent to add to the atmosphere.
Watch out for the well-dressed people, who parade endlessly past the stands to be noticed by the judges. When I was a judge last year, I discovered that some of the well-dressed are professionals who travel to all the race meetings solely for the purpose of winning prize money.
Galway has been a festival city since the beginning of July. The Arts festival brought marvellous foreign acts and foreign visitors to the city. Every hotel, guesthouse, B & B and hostel in the city and well out into the county is fully booked. It is a family festival - not just the races, but so much more. Drinking. Eating. Carousing. Card-playing. Street activity. Traditional music. Theatre. Time to put every other duty, obligation and leftover lump of tedium to one side.
I can't wait.