Besides, while many politicians understandably regard canvassing as a necessary evil, O'Rourke seems to relish every minute of it. It's very much de rigueur for candidates to make a virtue out of storming whirlwind-like through housing estates with military precision . . . but not this one.

It's not that there is any lack of organisation . . . far from it . . . it's just that O'Rourke seems to genuinely enjoy taking the time to stop and chat with everybody she comes across.

Some of it may be intelligence-gathering . . . for filing in the impressive database of constituents stored away in O'Rourke's brain . . . but, mostly, it seems to be plain, old-fashioned sociability. "Who was here before you moved in?" she asks one householder. "Oh yeah, I know him, " she adds on hearing the name.

When she encounters a woman from Lithuania, she is undeterred by the fact that she cannot vote in the general election. The two converse away about the young woman's home country and her new job in a local restaurant, before O'Rourke departs with a reminder that the woman is eligible to vote in future local and general elections. Whatever criticism you could make of O'Rourke the politician (and Ryanair's Michael O'Leary has famously made a few), nobody can ever accuse her of lacking the common touch.

Intense heat We are canvassing in a housing estate in Athlone smack bang in the middle of Ireland, but the heat is so intense that it feels more like the centre of the earth. The thermometer in the car is reading 270C and, if anything, it seems hotter. O'Rourke is smartly dressed in a white jacket with a blue trim and a blue polka dot skirt.

Reassuringly for those of us with fond memories of elections of yesteryear, the outfit is topped off by an old-style green and yellow O'Rourke rosette (ne'er a sign of a paper hat though, sadly). She is also wearing sunglasses but they are removed at each house which is good for eye contact, but bad for the bank balance . . . "I have already broken two pairs by standing on them, " O'Rourke tells the Sunday Tribune. This is clearly one of her strongholds and the response at the doorsteps is as warm as the weather. "Not a bother, Mary, it's in the bag, " says one householder.

Another reminds O'Rourke: "Let us know if you're looking for offers to ferry people around [on election day]."

At a different house, the welcome is friendly but more mischievous. "Hello Mary! What have you been doing these past five years? Will you get in this time, Mary?" the woman of the house asks teasingly. "I will if you vote for me, " comes the response.

But there is little by the way of hard sell, with O'Rourke generally preferring to shoot the breeze with her constituents.

"What's your name?" she asks a little boy.

When he replies that it's Dean Kelly, O'Rourke tells him that there was a very famous local priest of that name. "I'll always remember you now because of your name, " she says, before asking his older brother what his name is. She is not disappointed by the answer. "Luke? Luke Kelly. Did you ever hear of the singer Luke Kelly? 'Raglan Road'? The Dubliners? Your mammy will buy you the records." Surprisingly, it's not lost on the young fella. Twenty minutes later he cycles by, announcing to the Sunday Tribune: "I'm Luke Kelly, the singer."

Later we come to another house called Elsinore, the same name as the famous castle in Hamlet. O'Rourke, a former English teacher, is in her element as she discusses the merits of the Bard with the occupant. "I love Shakespeare. I got it from my mother, " the householder says.

Hamlet, Macbeth and Much Ado About Nothing are all dissected. "It's a funny winsome thing, isn't it?" O'Rourke comments on the latter play. "It showed what a great sense of humour he had, " the woman agrees.

Seconds later O'Rourke's own sense of humour comes into play. She goes to an open window of what she thinks is the house next door but is actually still part of Elsinore. When the same woman appears, O'Rourke responds: "Wait now, you're Mrs Shakespeare in Elsinore."

Both women burst out laughing at the 'wherefore art thou' scenario. Less Comedy of Errors and more All's Well that Ends Well, methinks.

Around the corner, her canvassing team await. "They're lounging, " she says, all mock disapproval before softening:

"It's a day for lounging, I suppose."

At another house, a still-young looking couple tell the canvassers that their grown-up children have flown the nest.

"You're back to canoodling so, " O'Rourke replies. Interior decor is also a topic of discussion with the Seanad leader popping in to one house to admire a new couch.

There is some political talk but mainly of the local variety. A new development of apartments is being proposed for the land adjacent to the estate and the residents are not happy, believing the density is far too high, but a compromise seems to be in the offing.

Three votes in the house At the back of the estate, a couple tell O'Rourke that there are three votes in the house for her but only for something in return. "You see those lovely big trees?

Can they be topped?" the man asks pointing to trees that line the relief road that runs close to their back garden. The problem is that the height of the trees is casting a darkness over the entire house by the middle of the afternoon. The good news, one of O'Rourke's team, councillor Kieran Molloy, tells them is that the National Roads Authority provides money for such projects but the problem is that the trees can't be chopped between March and September. "We can't disturb the birds, the birds, the birds, " O'Rourke declares almost poetically. "Oh Jaysus, the election will be over [by then], " the man says laughing.

"Do you want me to come out and hatchet them myself?" asks O'Rourke, before reassuring the couple that it will be possible to organise it after September. By that point, according to most pundits, O'Rourke will be back in the Dail. With typical candour she admits that in the wee small hours, she sometimes frets about the outcome (what politician doesn't? ) but says that she is "mostly filled with optimism". She denies she is driven by the memory of the last general election when Donie Cassidy took the FF seat in Westmeath. "I lost Enda [her beloved husband] one year and the election the next year. So in the context of that, the election was small."

Asked about relations with Cassidy . . .

they were notoriously fraught in 2002 and its aftermath . . . she says matter-of-factly, "We don't meet, so that's the best way."

She is too shrewd a politician to admit to thinking beyond polling day and swats away a question as to whether she would like to be a minister if Fianna Fail is returned to government. "I'm only interested in getting my seat. My mind is focused on that. After that we'll see what happens. I feel strongly the people are with me and I'm very happy to be out."

And even happier to be back 'in', no doubt, when the results are counted on 25 May.

Longford-Westmeath

AFTER a 15-year gap, Longford-Westmeath is back on the political map but, despite the massive changes that have taken place in Irish politics in that time, the traditional forces of Fianna Fail, Fine Gael and Labour are likely to continue where they left off in the 1980s.

The bookies have this contest effectively done and dusted even though there are six Oireachtas members vying for the four seats.

Labour's Willie Penrose, based in Westmeath, is unbackable to take a seat and is tipped to once again top the poll. Fianna Fail's Peter Kelly in Longford at 1/10 is also regarded as a shoo-in, while Fine Gael's James Bannon (also Longford) and Athlone-based Mary O'Rourke are next in the betting at 1/4 and 4/11 respectively.

While those four are the clear frontrunners, Fine Gael's Nicky McFadden polled reasonably well in 2002 and Donie Cassidy's chances cannot be entirely ruled out given that he is a sitting TD. The PDs' Mae Sexton shocked everyone by winning a seat in Longford in 2002, but she is regarded as a long-shot to succeed again and, at 12-1, the odds reflect that. Shane Coleman