The good news I bring to all Democrats over there as their convention fever heats up the global atmosphere is not to be attributed to me at all but to my multi-talented friend Denis Winter, of your parish rather than mine in the west of Ireland.
And I am very grateful to Denis for assisting me in bringing heartwarming tidings to one section of this readership in the midst of these otherwise troubled times. I will get to the detail in a moment, but first a little background.
I met the colorful Denis three summers ago when enjoying myself hugely at the Catskills Irish Arts Week in East Durham in upstate New York. It was a mighty week, led only by the craic the following summer at the same lively event.
In those sing songs and lectures and musical sessions I came quickly to enjoy Denis's abilities as a musician and singer and writer and general entertainer. It was not until a year ago I came to learn of his other great skill as a craftsman in wood; a real craftsman at that.
You see, the postman delivered a parcel to me about 15 months ago now. It contained a wooden whirligig of considerable size and presence.
It was shaped like a plumply aggressive male bird with strong wings and a sharp beak. It was perfect for my fence and I mounted it there at once.
Coincidentally Donald Trump was beginning his primary campaign about then, and so I christened the bird Donald and watched him fly atop the fence through the gales and frosts and storms of a Clare winter, and occasionally reported that he was still working in messages to his creator Denis Winter.
And dammit, early this year Denis sent me another wooden whirligig to keep Donald company on my fence. This one was infinitely smaller and much more chic and shapely.
It was clearly of female dimensions and its wings were much more sculpted and attractive. I mounted it on the fence to the left of the angrily whizzing Donald and immediately (I don't know why) baptized it Hillary, and away she went as I constantly observed the action and interaction between the two in all weathers.
The resulting factual report is fascinating in my view. I can report that until a fortnight ago the big Donald whirligig was so actively flapping his wings in every wind that blew that he sometimes made the fence shudder. In February he actually stunned a female blackbird with his right wing when she was unfortunate enough to venture too close.
Our cats avoided his vicinity like the plague and were wise to do so. As his wings rusted a little in the rain they began to make louder and louder sounds. It was quite a sight in stormy weather, and Donald always turned his timber backside against every wind so that he would continue to have activity and velocity.
The Hillary whirligig, on the other hand, behaved differently from the beginning of her tenancy of my fence. She only operated her little sculpted wings sparingly when she had to and, quite often, amazingly, only flew on one wing with some style.
Often, in the mornings, one could view the two of them a yard apart on the fence and Hillary, immobile, would appear to be looking at the loudly squealing Donald with an admixture of amusement and amazement. That was something to see.
It was also notable that our cats were unafraid of Hillary when they jumped up to sun themselves on the fence and, on three occasions, I actually saw our resident cock Robin perched happily on the top of Hillary's head. I don't know what that harmony represents. Make up your own minds on that one.
But what I can report for certain is that Donald's rusted wings seized up entirely the day after he finally secured the Republican nomination and, because of that, he was blown totally off the fence by a gust of wind and finished up in a nest of stinging nettles.
He looked somewhat sad down there and, with compassion, I picked him up, oiled the wings, and restored him to his perch.
But, dammit again, I am unhandy in this area, the wings refused to fly again -- even as Hillary gently fluttered away close by -- and by the end of the day poor Donald was found down in the nettles again. Those are the facts as I write.
I reckon, with thanks again to Denis Winter, that this unique kind of experiment from a back garden fence in Co. Clare represents very good news altogether for Hillary Clinton and her White House ambitions. I hope some of you will inform her of the bright future that clearly lies ahead.
In the meantime, being compassionate by nature,
I will attempt to restore poor Donald to some kind of better health following his fall.