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| How OS became Americanophile. Christmas in Philly, aged two-ish. The wreckage in the foreground is what remains of a Cornish Rock Hen which OS has mangled, now, genteelly, she's washing her hands in the water glass. Afterwards we took her into the garden and hosed her down |
Decision made to divorce parents today. If they hadn't selfishly taken me to the UK when I was four I'm pretty confident I would be living in Brooklyn, in THIS house (pic of brownstone), with THIS dog (some kind of puggish thing) with THIS view on my doorstep (you can guess). Bastards.
Just to set the minds of kind-hearted US citizens at rest this is an example of histrionic exaggeration which I've taught both daughters to practice and for which I'd score her an over-generous 6 out of 10. She's ignored opportunities for further snideities and I'll be reminding her of them when we drive to the Christmas market, in Düsseldorf, in a few weeks time.
In fact OS has solved a problem. Today as usual I rose at 06.25 am and Hereford was in total darkness. It happens at this time of year, I believe, although the vagaries of the natural world are of little interest to me. Yesterday Hereford caught the tail-end of Hurricane Ophelia with the sun turning a dusky red but you won't see me posting about either of those meteorological banalities. Humans have far more potential.
In my eighties I laugh less and today I fully intended to elaborate on this in a piece cut-and-pasted from The Anatomy of Melancholy (By R. Burton but not the famous one). OS's proceedings for divorce brought a wintry smile to my face and an even crueller intention to rain on her parade with a single word: TRUMP. Then I reminded myself I am a parent, I have both advantages and obligations.
I'll make do with "the rest is silence" even if in WS's case, he lied.
You've cleverly posted about all the things you claim to be refraining from, leaving out little except the kilonova news. A friend just gleefully forwarded the image of her certificate of Canadian citizenship, seemingly thinking that driving over an imaginary line will save her from Trump's apocalyptic stupidity. I'm with those who hope he spontaneously combusts. Real "if only" types (I know you're not) never seem happy to have simply survived. Unhit by cars, uncrashed in planes, unscathed by disease, they bitterly wonder on. I hope OS makes it home alive.
ReplyDeleteMikeM: There's a triangular dialogue going on at the moment. I'm getting stuff from OS's I-phone which really deserves integrating into this post. The latest says: You give me TRUMP, I give you this (ie, a photo of a giant dry martini, straight up, albeit with an olive rather than a twist.) OS has a crowded schedule in New York but I did say if she wanted to plug into North American civilisation at its most profound and most elegant she could contrive to be in the Oak Room bar of the Plaza Hotel round about dusk, order such a martini, and sip it looking out on to the park. A world away from Trump Tower, almost proof against nuclear obliteration. Singing:
ReplyDeleteWe'll all go together when we go,
Every Hottentot and every Eskimo,
There will be no more misery,
When the world is our rotisserie,
Oh, we'll all go, etc.
Auto-combustion is not sufficiently condign. Trump's end should be at the hands of some determined woman; handcuffed to his beloved podium, wearing nothing but a bra and a pair of pants fashioned from Old Glory, required to recite:
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
With Sean Spicer providing the sub-titles. Then to bed, shared with a horse's head.
Condign! Yeah.
And have his genitals shocked every time he lets his mouth open, continuing until it is closed again, until the end.
ReplyDelete