There's always that conflict when a might-never-get-the-chance-again type event comes to town. To sit comfortably at home and enjoy the bird's eye view provided by television or slum it in those long queues, for the sake of being there.
Today, I took the "Is feidir linn" (Yes we can, in Irish language) approach and headed into the city, two children on tow (who both firmly believed they might even shake the great man's hand)and joined the queue, and the electric atmosphere, on the way to College Green.
Apart from a magic moment when the chimes of Christchurch Cathedral's iconic bells mingled with the voice of the man himself as he spoke of hope and bonds, there was little chance that we got within striking distance.
The first twenty five thousand people were successful in getting in, the rest of us seventy five thousand had to make do with the screen.
We spent the President's speech wedged at the top of Dame Street, nearly a kilometre away from the action.
Back at home, several hours later, we watched, on telly, the bits we had missed by being there.