” ‘What is truth?’ said jesting Pilate; and would not stay for an answer.” — Francis Bacon. My favourite Dickens novel is Bleak House. For those who have not read it, may I be clear. It is not a novel about the Canadian Parliament. Dickens was alas too early to feast on its current incarnation, a mix of Zoom and evasion, and an eviscerated shell of what a House of Commons should be. No, instead Bleak House is built around a prodigious legal case before the venerated High Court of Chancery, a case that like the spider’s web entoiled all who fell within its gluey strands, and which eventually maddened and pauperized all (except the lawyers) who participated in it. At the end — bringing ruin to all participants taking over 70 years — no decision was given, the fortune at its centre had been exhausted by the lawyers’ fees, and all who attended to its endless twists and turns were driven to an ecstasy of frustration and disappointment.