I expected something wholly different. A maelstrom of Antos, of babies in strollers, of wailing mothers, of Nigerian men and women, of the whole fucking country seeking to talk to cynical, evil drones speaking through the glass. I expected to be there all day.
I got there a minute before midday, took a ticket, sat patiently for half an hour before I was beckoned to a window. The place, while hardly empty, was occupied by no more than six or seven waiting dolers, myself included.
When I told the girl behind the microphone that I'd worked for Setanta Sports, she took on a look of greatest sympathy and asked me if I was OK?
Turns out I was.
She was efficient, kind, friendly and chatty but not in an obtrusive way. She asked me what I thought of this Michael Jackson business, she'd hoped to get tickets to see him in London. She was going to bring her kids. I was sadder for her than for him, than for me.
"How long can I expect to wait?"
"Ah, about two weeks."
"Really, heard it'd be longer."
"They breed us different up here, Radge. We do our jobs."
I asked her what her first name was, it was Anne, and bid her a very good day.
I walked home down the Cabra Road and checked my mail.
Finally, finally some word from the office saying my letter of redundancy had been issued to the correct address. I'd had to email the company's head accountant as my importunes to the HR person - a raspy little jobsworth urchin who said she'd give us all the help we needed just three short days ago - had yielded no response.
I thought he'd have more important things to do than write to a (now) former employee, things like saving the rest of the Irish operation, so his small note of guidance meant a lot.
As for her? She can do one.