This day in Dublin, Mandela shakes my hand. It's a most peculiar moment. I look into his eyes, he looks into mine, and somehow I know I'm in the presence of sheer, bloody greatness. Not because of what he's done or had done to him, but simply because of who he is.
Last Sunday came yet another T.V. documentary detailing alleged abuse of young boys by Roman Catholic priests. As a journalist I investigated all sorts of stories about abuse of power. But, to my shame, it never occurred to me to investigate those rumours I'd heard so many years before about sexual abuse and the Catholic church in Newfoundland and Labrador.