It was an obituarial session. The body count came in at around two dozen plus three suicides a week and a helicopter crash. It began with nice, cricket-loving Tory Alan Haselhurst, went back fifty years to 1972 and bounced forward to today’s necropolis.
The House is happy with the dead. Everyone knows how to behave. The language is ready-made. The mourning attractively packaged. They reflect on the impossibility of knowing how the parents must be feeling; express their concern for their own children; rise to the occasion by learning the lessons of the tragedy and bask in the sacred silence when any death is on the floor of the House.
