four arguments and a buneral

Morning rendezvous with the Gringa in the Muse Cafe above Easons bookshop, for quick argument about drugs.
She said: "It's only a little weed."
I said: "It's nothing. It's useless. It's the absolute opposite of real living. It's not even a sensation. It's the opposite of sensation. The opposite of feeling. You don't need it. You're too good for it. It's a useless lie. You're better than that."

Afternoon rendezvous with the Perfect Fit in the Cafe Aroma on Abbey Street, for quick argument about pornography.
The Perfect Fit once managed a book shop in Madrid which included such wares among its interesting and varied produce.
She said: "Oh come on. It's just a business. Like any other. Like prostitution."
I said: "Yes it's exactly like prostitution. No. Actually it's more like drug use. You might as well be selling drugs as selling this rubbish."
Afterwards we wandered into the Easons next door, and I dragged her over to the pornography section.
"Look," I said reaching for some filth. "Which would you like? A little marijuana perhaps? Or how about some cocaine? Or why not try a little heroin just to really ruin your life? Could you imagine anybody's son or daughter appearing in this? Or could you imagine your own niece or nephews reading this to feel alive? Wouldn't it be the ultimate thievery of their existence?"
The perfect fit looked at me keenly.
Then she enquired sweetly: "Why do you feel so strongly about pornography? How do you know so much about it?"

Evening argument with Giovanna about euthanasia.
The Italians have just done away with a girl called Eluana who was in a coma.
I asked: "Aren't you even a little bit frightened that this is a step towards what the Netherlanders have done? In the Netherlands people are afraid to go into hospital now in case the doctor deems their life not to be worth living and murders them with a lethal injection."
Giovanna said: "If I was in a coma, I'd want you to shoot me."
I said: "And when I sit by your bed praying you back to life, are you going to look at me accusingly after you wake up and say: Why didn't you kill me?"
Giovanna said: "I wouldn't want to be kept alive. I'd want you to kill me."
I said: "And if I killed you, what then? You might go to heaven. Jesus would know that you didn't believe in him and that you weren't responsible for the idiotic decision to end your life. So you could really go to heaven. But I would go straight to hell. Because I do believe in Jesus. And I know your life is sacred. Even if you are in a coma. So if I killed you, I would go to hell. My soul would be lost for eternity. Would that make you happy?"

Quick dash to Naas hospital for an argument in the cafe with Glockers.
Glockers is a panelist on a nationally televised programme.
I have no idea what we argued about.
Something to do with the pay scale for television presenters.
I did not have the best of it.

Back to the Chateau de Healy for night time phone call from Hoddlebun.
Not really an argument.
I was too tired.
She had spent the afternoon praying before the relics of Saint Valentine who is reputed to buried in the altar of a Dublin church on White Friar Street.
She said: "I visited Saint Valentine today and brought him flowers."
I allowed myself a wry chuckle.
"It's no use Hodders," I told her. "He's never going to go out with you. He's dead."