Sunday, January 29, 2012
I have a slightly nutty aunt who is absolutely obsessed with British aristocrat hoohaw; she knows all the goings-on in the royal family and the difference between a baronette and a duchess and a valet and a lady-in-waiting; she reads Hello! and Harry Potter with equal fervency, and she finds it impossible to imagine that some of us don't actually care which peer of the realm is dressing up like Hitler and getting his naughty bum spanked by a prostitute, or whatever weird fancy dress-cum-light S&M it is that our island cousins do to get their rocks off . . . indeed, I suspect she thinks we're slight nuts when she starts talking about Harry and we're all trying to figure out if she means Harry who went to Alderdice or Harry from the William Penn Tavern whereas all along she meant the younger prince of England. Anyway, I am reminded of her every time I read one of these relentlessly dull whence-goes-Democracy-now jobs. I guess the servants always squinted their eyes and tried to read the inscrutable lines of succession, but the whole thing feels like a bad evening on PBS, which I suppose, in a certain way, it is.