Angus Anselm Poplett, ScB., C.A., C.R., and b&s.
Phimister Proctor, C.T.C., D.D.D., F.K.Q., C.P.I., and C.B.
Ste. Paphnutius, A.O.F., A.P.R.C., M.V.O., K.P., I.O.U. and S.J.
H. Pittendrigh MacGillivray, P.O.S., O.S.F., R.I.P., Rt. & W.D.G.M.
Solicitors at Large
13 December 1997
Blashford, Ringwood
Laugharne, Carmarthenshire
South Wales
United Kingdom
Mr. Steve G
techstocks.com
Silicon Investor
Communications
Amati Investors
Dear Mr. G,
Mr. H. Pittendrigh MacGillivray, fondly known around here as Pity, while away on holiday, asked that I handle one of his clients, I suspect because I'm the only saint in the firm. He claims this particular client must remain anonymous and while I can't for the life of me comprehend why, I must abide by his wishes. You know the English, theirs not to reason why. . . and so on and so on. Bloody race if you ask me, though no one has. Bull-headed, stiff-lipped, I-dotters to the very last one. I know, I know, Pity's not English. He's Scots. Now, they're another breed altogether. Rather loveable, they are. Stubborn, aye, tis true. And loyal to the death. But those kilts! You have to wonder about a race of men who go around in skirts. . . What's that you say? You don't like my cassock? I'll have you to know. . . .
Errr. . . where was I?
Oh, yes, the anonymous American, Pity's client. Let's see, what did she want. . .? My mind's a bit cloudy. Age, you know. Been here fifty-nine years come January. More seniority than anyone else by twenty years. Yes, sireeee. Whipper-snappers like Pity, they've a lot to learn. They think they can get ahead and idle time away on holiday besides. It can't be done. Me? Never took one in my life. Well, one. But I was young then. Didn't know any better. I slipped away to Lindisfarne, as I recall. Cut off from the mainland at high tide. Nothing like it anywhere north of France. And absolute solitude. It was heavenly. You ought to try it some time. They put me up in the turret with a view of the North Sea. That and my books --- who could ask for more? I tell you, Pity's got it all wrong. I mean to say, Majorca? Who needs all that Spanish sun? And beaches! And women! Mon dieu!! Really, who needs them!
Yes, well, speaking of women. This American --- the one who wishes to remain anonymous --- phoned this morning to ask about a trivial matter having to do with your claim she owes you an apology. Something about a long-ago debate the details of which seem more than strange. She claims she was hit on the head with a baseball bat, screamed in pain, and is being asked to apologize for screaming. I'm sure she's not telling it like it happened. This just couldn't be. Not in America. Not in the world of the SuperBowl, Pete Sampras, and sandwiches so fat you can't eat them. Yes, yes, yes, I can believe a woman would scream when hit with a bat. In this I'm sure she's guilty, guilty, guilty. Guilty until proven innocent is my motto. But as for apologizing, I'm surprised Pity took the case. There's just no way in hell (pardon my Latin) you'll get a woman to apologize because she's been told to. Pity knows this. Even I know it and I've never been married. Never been with a woman. Never claimed to know how their minds work. It's a puzzlement, indeed. Yes, sireee. . . a puzzlement.
What is it with you Americans, anyway? Where is your sense of humor? Here I am an eighty year-old celibate without a full day's experience with the fairer sex and I know enough not to force a woman to do anything against her will. I would rather walk through hell barefoot than make a request like that. Have you no experience? Have you no common sense? Have you no imagination?
Yes, well, errr. . . I see. . . I've gotten off the subject. I beg your pardon. I'll get right to the point. Hmmmm. . . can't say I know what the point is. I knew a few minutes ago. Now, it's gone. Memory gaps. Troughs, some days. You just wonder where thoughts go. One second they're there, like the catechism, spread out in your mind. And the next, they're gone --- like a stolen dream.
Dreams. . . where do they go . . .
Ah, well, this American. . . . I suppose justice will have to be done. If she's guilty --- as Pity claims she may well be --- I'm quite certain I know what he'd do. He'd throw the book at her. No, no, no, not the book, the English don't write anything down. He'd throw history at her. Hang her with precedence.
What am I saying? Pity's a Scotsman. He'll likely hang you both. Her for being so brute stupid she'd waste time on anyone without a sense of humor, and you for being so thick skulled you can't find a way to get a woman to apologize without realizing she's done it. You'd better pray for mercy.
Mercy? That reminds me of a client Pity had a few years ago. It was a young woman. Younger than your American. And frightened nearly out of her wits. She had to face the judge and before entering the courtroom she went up to Pity, trembling, and asked in a voice so faint you had to strain to hear her, "Sir, will the judge be just?" Pity had her repeat her question and then thundered in response. "No. He won't be just! Which of us would survive if he were? My child, pray for mercy."
Ah, yes, there's far too little, that I'm sure.
And now I'm weary. I don't know how to advise you, though if you insist on proceeding, I might encourage you to act in haste, for if Pity returns before you've pressed charges, you won't stand a chance. When dealing with women, you need a saint.
Yours sincerely,
Ste. Paphnutius, A.O.F., A.P.R.C., M.V.O, K.P., I.O.U., and S.J., Solicitor Emeritus |
