the greatest crimes are the crimes against human dignity

Morning in my world.
The noble Heelers is sitting in the kitchen at the old chateau.
He is clutching his srón.
(Irish for nose. - Rod note.)
Enter the Mammy stage left accompanied by a Paddy Pup.
"What's wrong with you?" quoth she.
"My nose is bleeding," explains Ireland's greatest living poet.
"Well stop picking it then," sez the Mammy heading for the kettle.
I find her instruction, the manner in which it is delivered, and the assumptions underlying it, to be more than a little offensive.
"Mother," I say with that famous hauteur some of you have come to know and love. "Mother..."
I've got the hauteur routine just perfect bold readers.
Only I can think of nothing to say.
My exit stage right is magnificent.