My mother is a remarkable woman, but she can be infuriatingly scatter-brained. So I was suprised the other day when, with unwonted perspicacity, she asked me if something was troubling me.
“The fact is, Mother, I’m being chased by three women, and I can’t seem to get rid of them.”
“Ah, if only your Father were alive ...”
“You know perfectly well it’s your own fault that he isn’t.”
She brushed my remark aside, and said: “Do I know them?”
“I shouldn’t think so, Mother.”
“Well, tell me their names anyway - perhaps I could have a word with their parents.”
“I don’t know their first names, but their family name is Eumenides.”
My mother sighed. “All these ladies will be the death of you, Orestes.”
I laughed. She has always been inclined to exaggerate. Yet if this harassment continues, I think I may well go mad.
(Classical scholars will immediately detect the major flaw in this piece.)
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