However, this narrative clashed with reality: the military started making arrests during the uprising, with 12,000 people tried in military courts since February at a conviction rate of 93 per cent; soldiers forced virginity tests upon female activists detained in the Egyptian museum; and critics of the military were committed to mental institutions.
The former president, his hair freshly dyed, was wheeled into a makeshift Cairo court, perhaps suffering heat exhaustion after months of military detention in the idyllic resort town of Sharm el-Sheikh. Most probably, it was nothing more than a feeble attempt to win public sympathy.
The trial of Mubarak and his sons Alaa and Gamal spluttered along in an on-again off-again manner. Loyalists and opposition gathered outside, hurling rocks at each other. The trial is now on hold until next month.
With the first round of parliamentary elections looming on November 28, the country is in a state of disarray.
Dozens of parties are fielding candidates, and independents are also running - more than 6000 candidates nationwide.
Former members of Mubarak's National Democratic party disbanded in April by the Supreme Administrative Court, have organised new political groups and are contesting the elections.
The Islamist bloc has fractured, and secular movements are disorganised.
Parties are allowed to nominate only one woman from their list, raising the spectre for the exclusion of women from parliament.
Also, the military capped campaign budgets at E£500,000 ($110,000), leading to concerns that former NDP representatives, with their vast financial reserves and connections to big business, will have an edge over other candidates.
Meanwhile, security forces have continued with the torture and gross violations of human rights that characterised Mubarak's regime.
On October 27, 24-year-old Essam Atta died in prison after guards allegedly turned on hoses and shoved them into his anus and mouth.
Scant improvement has been made since Mubarak's downfall. Most analysts suggest that the future Egyptian parliament will be weak and riven by fractures, which would reduce the leverage the public can wield over the president.
Everyone knows the elections that will really count are the Presidential elections, which the Supreme Council of Armed Forces (SCAF) has put-off well into 2013, arguably securing or unilaterally extending its executive role over the formative stages of post-uprising Egypt.
SCAF is closely calibrated to Pentagon policy, getting US$2 billion ($2.6 billion) a year in US military aid since signing a peace treaty with Israel in 1979, which grew out of the Camp David agreements the previous year.
Existing treaties act as a powerful disincentive for SCAF to usher in genuine participatory politics.
Most Egyptians revile what they view as Israel's grotesque repression of Palestinians and would certainly like to see the peace treaty dissolve, at least until the US and Israel adopt a more proportionate approach to resolving the Israel-Palestine conflict.
However, the consequences of Egypt moving in a direction unsavoury to the US and Israel are clear to SCAF.
In a final cruel twist, a collection of around 3000 businessmen and lawyers in Cairo and Alexandria have begun pasting posters on walls around the cities calling for the head of SCAF, Field Marshal Hussein Tantawi, to run for President.
This campaign should be read as the beginning of a military bid for the presidency; if not Tantawi, then someone else from within military ranks.
Despite the insurrection, Egypt's people remain caught between stifling Islamic orthodoxy, repressive social strictures, autocratic rule meted out by the military junta and a Western world framing its foreign policy in terms of Egypt's geo-strategic importance, particularly with regards to Israel and the Suez canal.
Ultimately, the more vocal citizenry have marginally restricted Egypt's political parameters and the potential for abuse of power, but their uprising has yet to force an observable impression into how politics are conducted.
Glen Johnson is a New Zealand journalist.