A criminal case, expected to last for another six months, is now being heard in Manchester Crown Court. The gentle reader may recall my fitful interest in public sensations of this kind, most recently the Depp libel trial, as these would transport me into that epoch of yellow journalism where liberty of conjecture reigned supreme, so unlike the straitjacketed press in our day.
Scanning the papers, I noted with interest that the Montecito house presently occupied by the British immigrant formerly known as Prince has nine bedrooms and 16 bathrooms. The bedrooms are neither here nor there. I’m not a Leveller or any other sort of Communist. It’s the number of bathrooms – great enough, I should think, to serve a medium-sized airport – that got my goat.
The slogan “Kinder, Küche, Kirche,” otherwise known as “the three Ks,” makes most people think of the Third Reich which famously adopted it, but in fact this slogan dates back to the German Empire.
Italy has just held a general election. This is widely touted as having brought to power “the most rightwing government since Mussolini,” although why the socialist intellectual Mussolini should serve as a benchmark for the formulaically conservative Roman cafona who will be heading it is something of a mystery.
My private statistical analysis shows that the question most frequently asked of a new parent is “Does he sleep through the night?” The true purpose of the question – in essence as rhetorical as any old “How are you?” out there – is to show the parent that his interlocutor is a person of acumen and experience who can speak of child rearing as confidently and competently as he speaks of missiles in Donbas or about vegetable gardening.
Another fascinating thing about watching a child grow is the gestation of his powers of attention. I do not say “evolution,” though attention is a kind of faculty which is by nature progressive, because I find both evolution and progress conceptually suspect.
The other week, under the pretext of our daily stroll through town, Vasily and I betook ourselves to a terrace bar where I could have a glass of Ricard’s “Pastis de Marseille” accompanied by a cigar and he could have his bare feet tickled by the barmaid.
Time sure does pass. Unbelievably, this is my three hundred and sixty-fifth flight of fancy in this space, which means that were the gentle reader to peruse a single archived post per diem, it would fix him up with reading matter for a whole year.
I fear I may be becoming a kind of Mumsnet figure, jettisoning a past of decadence and dissolution, shelving a present of geopolitical awareness and acumen, and at last becoming more or less competent to answer young mothers’ anxious questions about which talcum powder is best value for money.
What are you doing, I would ask my father towards the end of his life, telephoning him in New York from a succession of tramontane regions that were, to him, as inconsequential as they were exotic. Invariably he would give the same answer: “I am lying in bed waiting for world fame.” World fame never did fall to his share, yet this does not mean that his methodology was flawed.
