Measles and More

In her normal days Mum was a thorough hypochondriac on behalf of the entire family. As a child she contacted diptheria,and was only saved by the serum produced from injecting horses with diphtheria toxins to stimulate the production of antibodies in their blood. This was in 1930s/40s Spain, after the Civil War. Even in all that carnage folk knew how to drive away the terrible 'strangling angel of chidren'*. Mum learned her lesson well into adulthood. We were basically NHS pincushions.

Now of course she has forgotten all that. As have others, apparently, cue a sudden burst of measles in London. Measles! That old nursery bogey! Measles was sorted many years ago, yet somehow here we are again. People don't trust institutional authorities any more, some fear what they perceive as the medical/pharmaceutical industry's pursuit of profit, some never got told and some just plain forgot about getting their kids vaccinated around/after Covid. So much, too much. Still, it isn't an epidemic and hopefully won't become one. Fingers crossed for the old town.

And in that same old town, Bro is discovered to have elevated PSA levels. Docs found nothing to worry about but suggest a biopsy. He ain't doing it, despite my powers of persuasion (aka eye-rolling and saying 'for Christ's sake, just get on with it.') He's so avoidant! But he has promised me solemnly that he will monitor the situation, and I try not to bark and harry, given my own history of telling doctors to sod off. I didn't exactly race towards my own biopsy.

Meanwhile. Valentine's Day was fun. We went to Howling Wolf in Glasgow, listened to a great live band of old geezers playing amazing blues. There is something else planned for tomorrow night, but R won't tell me what it is, only that it requires frockage. So I bought a few separates. One thing about Scotland, at least for me, is that pretty clothes go by the by. I'm a bit of a jeaniac anyway, wearing t shirts in Summer, jumpers in Winter. He's been begging me to buy new clothes as stuff gets threadbare, but I don't enjoy shopping. I like clothes that keep me warm and don't make me itch, a taller order than it sounds.

And I have stuff to do today but just can't get down to it yet. Wake up Boot!

*They actually called it that.

Andrew

Oh my.

I recall seeing Fergie leap out of a car, slam the door, and race down the street followed by hapless bodyguards. What struck me then was her bandy legged sprint; I couldn't help thinking that whoever she was seeing, she could calm down a bit. Having said that, Fergie would outpace Usain Bolt for a free meal. Even then she had the rep of a grifter, albeit a very genial one. Other colleagues had tales to tell of the pair of them; she and Andy were known for bad table manners ('they eat like pigs'), and treating restaurant staff with no courtesy whatsoever. But then Cookie, Anne, and Margaret alike were all reputed to be capable of rudeness, expecting the world to put up and shut up due to their station. Never can tell really. Re Andy and Fergie stories, these were the same staff members complaining that Princess Diana was too tall with a big nose and a lucky face for photos. I am not sure what diplomats really know, but for proper irreverant goss, check in with embassy secretaries, at once vicious and shrewd. True? Couldn't say. Entertaining? Every day of the week.

The Yorks were universally considered exemplars of crass behaviour by those around them. Andrew is/was one of the most colossally spoilt men in the world. Can he have been as colossally stupid as it would take, to maintain relations with Epstein, then lie about them, and solidly keep lying? Can he really have forwarded confidential trade documents to Epstein, which seems the most likely basis for this charge? Even supposing him to be immeasurably infantile and greedy, could he be this foolish? What's he been doing with his money to need this kind of friend?

The King says what he must say, and it's true: The law must take its course.

The strange thing is this; in principle I am against the idea of monarchy, though I do see how it could be a waymarker for a nation, maybe even a binding power among disparate groups within the whole, the person who is and always will be above party politics, the person who exists to be your group egregore, the embodiment of your values, people, land. I can see it as a poetic conceit, maybe even a spiritual one. But I have never agreed with the inherent inequality of it, and royal finances need a proper squint, for they seem singularly obtuse. Yet somehow the death of the queen sealed my place as an Elizabethan, rather than a Carolingian or a Williamite. Do I miss her, do I feel for her? Probably not, but I do feel for the times she represented. And I am glad, for the sake of fond mums everywhere, that she was not around to see her favourite boy's disgrace splashed on the front page of every paper.