S'ligo or you?
Aideen was a little girl who learnt Irish at her mothers knee, which, when you think about it, is a strange place to learn anything.
She grew up in a post imperial, but highly anglicised environment, where her mother's native tongue had been supressed and was now facing extinction. She agonised for many years over the fate of her beloved language and its fairly dim prospects.
Her legal qualifications, while admirable in themselves, were no help. She knew the latin tag: non curat lex. The law doesn't give a shit.
Her journalistic and presentational skills had stood her in good stead in the course of a glorious career in PR. This had included serious self-promotion, subtle marketing of non-alcoholic beverages, valiant efforts to put Berningham on the map, avoiding maritime distasters and even the promotion of Opera (the music, not the browser) in the Far East. Said career culminated in the glorious finale that was the selling of the Emperor Makarios's new clothes for a mess of British pottage. Holiday homes for expat Brits in Pissouri.
In spite of this sparklingly successful career, she remained troubled by the fate of her Mater's kneespeak. How could this be reversed. Perhaps Israel, just across the water, had shown the way. All that was needed was a catalyst (but definitely not a roman catalyst - they had had their day and it was now the Profit's turn, Moha Med My Man].
She would harness her own skills, which had helped turn so many of those unfortunates born outside the boundries of her beloved Corcha Dorcha, or on the other side as this culturally and linguistically disadvantaged area is known, into real native speakers or lucht an lá breá as they are affectionately known by their peers.
She would reach for the stars from the depths of the Celtic Mist:
Aon
Do
Trí
Qatar
and nothing would ever be the same again.