A friend of mine once had a rare audience with punk legend Joey Ramone. Joey was, as always, sporting his trademark sunglasses. It was late at night after a gig at Dublin's TV Club and Tony asked him, jokingly, if he ever took them off.


"No, man," replied Joey.


"But can you actually see anything through them?"


Joey shrugged, implying the negative. Tony persevered.


"Does that not bother you?"


"Look, man," said Joey, his pupils hidden behind two almost-opaque walls of glass, "there's not a HELL of a lot I WANT to see out there."


It was an interesting world view – or, rather, lack of it. I was reminded of it last week when I read the profoundly touching story of Dublin woman, Jenny O'Connell, who has had her sight partially restored after 46 years. Jenny went blind when she was 11 and will soon, hopefully, be able to see her husband and children. She will see a lot of other new things too, which must be exciting, and daunting, for her.


As Jenny was entering into darkness in 1963, Ireland was emerging from it. Kennedy visited, the showbands jived and Sean Lemass was lowering unemployment. The queues Jenny may have seen for the Mail Boat were shrinking. She won't see any today because there is no escape route for the 380,000 unemployed. She will, however, be able to see what a modern dole queue looks like: multi-racial and full of highly-skilled people.


Among the many coloured faces Jenny will see here now are those of the Orange People – 1960s' freckles are extinct. This month, scores of Irish children are being sprayed-tanned orange for their Communions. These little tangerines may grow up to become the Jaffa-hued models who inhabit the diary pages like Rosanna 'Rubex' Davison and her boyfriend, Whasisname. Are they on? Are they off? Will they please get lost? Jenny can now fully appreciate the fake-tan-deep, appearance-obsessed vacuousness of post-Tiger Ireland.


She can also put a face on Brian Cowen and see those voluptuous, bee-stung lips mouthing phrases like "what's the point?". That was his despairing response to heckling over his handling of the Monageer tragedy report. Like the rest of us, Jenny will not be able to read all of the report as it's been censored. She can, however, see photographs of the little Dunne girls who were killed by their dad.


Along with Cowen's mouth, she can also marvel at some necks: those of Ireland's developers. They are setting up a federation to dictate how the National Asset Management Agency operates. Developers created most of the ugly landscapes Jenny is seeing for the first time. Now they are forming a union to fight the state. Imagine the first AGM: all of them in one room. Hopefully the roof will cave in.


In 1960s' Ireland, the bank manager was cock-of-the-walk. Jenny nearly got to see one of those cockerels being egged at AIB's EGM last week. Pensioner Gary Keogh said he snapped when supremo Dermot Gleeson told a shareholder to "sit down while I'm speaking". He flung eggs at the stage and was 'whisked' away by security. What was that old phrase about never teaching 'your granny how to suck eggs'?


Jenny will see her first Dart, Luas and euro. She will see her first Limerick gang funeral. She can watch all the bad news she likes on digital TV. She can sample other digital treats like generic text messages ('CU L8R'?) and the internet at its clinical, automated worst. From tomorrow, Ryanair passengers will have to check in online and print their boarding passes at home, or be hit with a €40 penalty. Jenny has children to do this for her. Ryanair apparently doesn't care about those who don't.


Joey Ramone said there wasn't a hell of a lot he wanted to see. If the above examples were all that were on offer, you'd have to agree. They aren't.


Along with the new sights, there are old ones for Jenny to rediscover. She's from Dun Laoghaire. In time, she will be able to walk with her blind husband along the seafront there on a sunny day, like last Tuesday. She can describe what she sees to him. The colour of the sea foaming over the walls of the Fortyfoot at Sandycove. A nutter in a rickety boat see-sawing through the swell to Bulloch Harbour. People sheltering from the breeze in the lee of the wall at the half-moon-shaped beach. Sunburn glowing above the collars of old folk sunbathing with their coats on. The Mr Whippy van arriving, children paddling, dogs chasing waves. Someone poking a jellyfish with a stick.


She can stop in Fitzgerald's pub and admire the murals or watch, for the first time, a glass of stout slowly change from marble to jet black. She can describe the bubbling, fleeting happiness of a sunny day in our odd little country. How we savour that small morsel of happiness and declare it a feast.


Maybe, someday soon, she'll read this article to her husband. I hope she does, because I'd like to thank her here for lifting people's spirits with her story.


Thank you, Mrs O'Connell. Life sucks right now, but you've proved that hope is lurking everywhere.


dkenny@tribune.ie