For last week O'Herlihy performed feats of recall that by the standards of tribunal land were quite astonishing.

On Wednesday, he told the planning tribunal that a property executive, Richard Lynn of Monarch, confided in him in 1992 that bribery was afoot in Dublin County Council. The executive also inferred that Monarch were involved in bribing councillors. There is no written record of the conversation.

Big deal, you might say. The man remembered what was for him a significant revelation. Most of us in relative control of our cognitive faculties would do likewise, even at the remove of 14 years. Well, by tribunal standards it is a big deal.

O'Herlihy was obviously uncomfortable relating the details of his memory. He had nothing to gain, certainly within business circles, for faithfully recalling the way things were. And if he had neglected to remember, there was no chance of a piece of paper being placed before him to jog his memory. Thus, he was a highly credible witness, possessing, by tribunal standards, an elephantine memory. Lynn, by the way, denies the conversation ever took place.

Powers of recall O'Herlihy's powers of recall place in stark light the general condition of memory among tribunal witnesses. By and large, it's not too hot, and would leave you in fear that some can barely remember their own names. Witnesses generally can't remember anything that might present an awkward situation. In the cavernous hall that houses the tribunal, there is a case for employing Barbra Streisand to belt out that old favourite as witnesses approach the box to give their tuppence worth.

"Memories, light the corner of my mind Misty water colour memories, Of the way we were."

It could only assist in repairing the cognitive features that seem to have been ravaged by time.

Some instances of memory loss are strange, others stranger. But as the witness tends to be an upstanding citizen pledging on oath to tell the whole truth, we must assume that the loss is down to human frailty.

For example, Mary O'Rourke remembered a highly unusual impromptu cabinet meeting of sorts with developer Tom Gilmartin, a man who would have been well known to ministers at the time as he was going to transform Dublin. Yet others who were present, Bertie Ahern, Ray Burke, P Flynn and Gerry Collins, have no recollection of the event at all. Maybe women just have that extra bit between their ears when it comes to powers of recall.

69 politicians Meetings are one thing, but where memory really plays games is when money raises its laughing head in Dublin Castle. Some politicians display the recall of a ditsy hedgehog when it comes to remembering how much they got, and from whom.

Currently, there are 69 politicians trooping through Dublin Castle to explain if, when and why they got money from Monarch Properties, which was attempting to have 236 acres in south Co Dublin transformed from muck to gold through rezoning. The company doled out over 300,000 to councillors in connection with the rezoning in the early '90s, all of which it says were "legitimate political donations". (Quick digression:

How can legit donations be given in connection with a rezoning project? Is this not untenable? No doubt, the smart chappies in the Criminal Assets Bureau are already mulling over that one. ) Guess what? A whole rake of politicians forgot all about the money that was shoveled their way. In most instances the Fianna Fail and Fine Gael politicians forgot the donation when dealing with party inquiries set up in 2000 to see who got what from whom and whether it was funny money.

These inquiries were set up in the wake of Frank Dunlop's confession that he had bribed his way through the 1993 Dublin Development Plan. In retrospect, the inquiries appear to be have been bad sitcoms, produced by the same outfit that gave us Bertie Ahern's hilarious "How I Climbed Every Tree In North Dublin" one man show.

GV Wright forgot to tell the FF inquiry about over 3,500 he got from Monarch. On an earnings index this would equate to over 6,000 in today's money, a sum many of us wouldn't forget about easily.

Tom Kitt remembered his Monarch lolly, but he forgot 3,800 he received from another developer. This included a single donation of 2,540, the largest he ever got.

Charlie O'Connor wouldn't have made it onto Mastermind with his powers of recall. He forgot to tell the inquiry about 2,500 he got from Monarch in 1991. He also didn't tell them because the time was just prior to his election so he didn't think it relevant, so Charlie had both a faulty memory and a legalistic excuse for not revealing it, just to be sure, to be sure. He remembered it recently when he read about it in the newspapers.

Then there is Don Lydon, dear old Don, who is turning out to be a seriously gas ticket. On Wednesday, O'Herlihy revealed "under protest" that Lydon was named by Lynn as the lead councillor who distributed dosh between some of his colleagues for their votes.

Don denies the scurrilous "pub talk".

He might remember what he didn't do but he doesn't remember 12,000 in donations he received from Monarch and another developer, Christopher Jones. This included one tranche of 6,350 in 1992, the largest single donation he got. The average industrial wage that year was 16,418. The following year when Lydon was elected to the senate his salary was 22,342.

The money he forgot about was some whack in those terms, but then the mind is a strange thing, as Don, who is a psychologist, will attest to.

Marian McGennis has no recollection of payments totalling 2,000 in the early '90s. And why would she?

Who, after all, could keep a memory intact, when all around are losing theirs? Former councillor Ned Ryan forgot about 5,080 he received.

Extrapolating on an average earnings index, this equates to 9,345 in today's money, a reasonably sized SSIA bonanza.

The failure of so many Fianna Failers to remember for the party inquiry in 2000 who was shovelling money at them (we'll come to the Blueshirts in a minute) happened against a crazy background. Frank Dunlop had just confessed.

Nobody knew where he might take things. There was some panic afoot. All previous bets were off.

Playing tricks on the mind In such an environment, the mind can go on safari. While undoubtedly all above named genuinely failed to remember, it would have been understandable if the heady times played tricks on the mind. If in doubt, leave it out. The strategy could be accompanied by practice in front of a mirror, eyes front, face straight, voice dead earnest, issuing the immortal line; "I don't recall".

Of course, that approach might attract unscrupulous souls, but didn't apply to any of our friends before the tribunal.

Over in Fine Gael, the cognitive ratings weren't much better. Former Dublin lord mayor Michael Keating told the FG inquiry he had no recollection or record of any payments, yet Monarch has records saying he received 3,300. Former junior minister Mary O'Flaherty didn't tell the inquiry about donations of between 380 and 1,905 she got from Monarch over seven elections. She didn't attempt to set the record straight afterwards, because her records were incomplete.

It wasn't that she didn't remember, it was that the matter was so "muddy and unclear", which is exactly how the memory can get over time.

Other FG stalwarts, like the Cosgraves, Liam ( 4,440) and Michael Joe ( 1,270), also failed to remember the generosity of developers who were resolute in supporting the democratic process lest it might ever fall into the hands of communists or fascists.

The propensity of so many to forget their electoral sugar daddies bodes ill for politics. Is this the calibre of individual who takes up the noble calling of public service? One whose cognitive faculties is so suspect? If it wasn't for the regressive therapy afforded by the tribunal, none might ever have had the chance of revisiting those heady days when developers and some councillors discovered such a confluence of interests as they planned the future of the greater Dublin area. Remember that?

We'll never forget it now.