LOVE her or hate her, she won't be speaking any more. Not a single grating word to be uttered in public ever again. The falling silent of Margaret Thatcher probably isn't the big deal it once would have been.
After all, her contributions from the sidelines haven't had the impact they once did, as she has sounded more and more like Miss Faversham, with a dusty, mouldy pile of Thatcherism on the table in front of her instead of a decayed wedding cake.
But still, what an occasion in our house. Fists in the air, cartwheels across the carpet, fireworks spilling sparks over the garden, cannons exploding from the roof, corks popping, cocks crowing, massed choirs singing old Billy Bragg songs, that sort of thing.
Time has tamed Mrs Thatcher, time and the advice of her doctor after she suffered the latest in a series of strokes.
What a shame that good doctor wasn't around 20 years ago. If her speeches are bad for her blood pressure now, just think what they did to mine all that time ago.
Readers with long memories might remember that this column stumbled into the light of day with assorted squeaks of protest about the woman who became known in this vicinity as Mrs Hacksaw.
Time has passed, we live in different days, and it is best to be mellow and to re-assess those harsh early opinions, to give the baroness her due. Oh, to hell with that! I stand by every stubborn word. Poke around in the ashes and the indignation glows as bright as ever it did. This probably isn't healthy, but there you go.
It was odd the effect Mrs Thatcher could have on people. Some worshipped her, which was a strange and disturbing occurrence, as they lapped up every whisky-sour hurtful word.
Others, sensitive souls of intelligence and taste, hated everything about her. The former premier only had to appear on the television for me to be driven mad by her hushed, fake-reasonable tones, by the perfumed nastiness that clung to everything she said.
Long after she left Number Ten, ejected by her own side, that perfume hung about the national life. It choked John Major, did for William Hague, and a malignant whiff trails after Tony Blair still.
I almost didn't write any of this. After all, it all seems so long ago and time is the best cure for all those old politicians you dislike. However, Margaret Thatcher was special - she raised in some breasts feelings of great "loathing", which is how the writer Sue Townsend puts it. And who am I to argue with Adrian Mole's mum?
It might have been best left alone, except for the memory of the damage she did. In her horrible hey-day, Mrs Thatcher was, as the commentator Will Hutton put it at the weekend, the "high priestess of prejudice". Her small-minded, narrow views spread about her like a pool of something unpleasant, poisoning both the country and her own party.
Mrs Thatcher lowered taxes for the rich and cut back spending and investment on core services, leaving a rotten legacy in the NHS, education and transport. We might blame New Labour now - and fair enough, they came in promising change - but Thatcher lies at the roots of much that is wrong today.
Maybe some unions were too big for their hob-nails, and Thatcher did set in motion improvements in education which New Labour are bringing to fruition. But the damage she did lasts longer and stronger than the minuscule good, it lingers in the air.
Still, it doesn't matter now, for Mrs Thatcher will never speak again in public.
You know, some days it really is worth getting up in the morning.
Updated: 12:26 Thursday, March 28, 2002
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