vintage lilism

Beetling into the Whitewater Centre with the Mammy for coffee.
She's in fine fettle.
"Look at ould baldy," she whispers as one of the burlier security men passes us.
"Shhh Mother," I exclaim, "you can't be saying those sort of things when they can hear you."
The aged parent shrugs aged parently.
By way of changing the subject she mentions Father.
"You won't believe what happened this morning," sez she. "I heard your father in the kitchen saying f---, f---, f---, over and over. And I went out to him and asked: What are you cursing about. And he said: I can't remember."
I found this anecdote highly amusing.
We laughed ourselves silly on the escalator up to the Costa Cafe.
By the way noble travellers of the internet, "I can't remember" would be a standard piece of Daddler plausible deniability.
It's loosely translated as "I'm not telling you."
The Mammy turned her attention to weightier issues.
As we entered the cafe she began one of her trade mark diatribes about my enemies.
"Why are you still writing about the Johnston Press?" quoth she. "It's not like they're going to understand anything you say. Those sort of people wouldn't have a clue about Ozymandias. They'd all be running away to look up the books and see who he is. They wouldn't know Percy Bysshe Shelley from their elbows. It's not far from the half door they were reared. You're throwing your pearls before swine."
I said nothing.
I didn't want to interrupt her when she was on a roll.
And the caffe latte tasted like the ichor of heaven that morning.