nihil de mortui bonum

Afternoon tea with Mother in the Cafe Des Beaux Parvenus at Newbridge Silverware.

"I didn't like that obituary you wrote about Maurice Nelligan," quoth she.

"Why" sez me.

"Because I felt I knew him," quoth she.

"Knew him in the sense of never having met him, never having talked to him, never having corresponded with him in any way?" wondereth me.
The Mammy considered this.

"I felt I knew him," she said, "like in that scene where Hamlet picks up the skull and says: Alas poor Yorick."

I nodded sagely.

"Alas poor Nelligan," I pronounced, "I never met him, never spoke to him, never had any contact with him whatsoever, but I felt I knew him."

"You're missing the point," quoth the Lildebeest.

"Enlighten me," sez me.

"I really didn't like the article," persisted she.

I considered this before replying.

"But did I say anything untrue?" I ventured. "When I called him plush bottomed, was that untrue? When I called him smug, was that untrue? When I said that he had failed to criticise the rampant trade unionisation of nurses in the health service or even mention the grotesque overpayment of all health service workers, was that untrue? When I said that his every solution to every incompetence among health service staff was to advocate that our bankrupt government should just throw more money at them, was that untrue? When I said he was rich, was that untrue?"

"What's wrong with being rich?" challenged the Mammy.

"If there's nothing wrong with it, there should be nothing wrong with me pointing it out," I shot back.

The aged P sat up suddenly.

"What are you writing now?" she rapped.

"Nothing."

"Are you writing down what I just said?"

"No."

"I don't want this to go on your blog."

"Okay."

"Ah f---."