Trumpitty-Bumpitty / Bumpitty-Trumpitty (you decide)

Several things have happened today. Well, several things happen every day but you know what I mean…

President Trump has decided against visiting himself upon us this February in order to ‘cut the ribbon’ on the new US Embassy. The new US Embassy is rather an incredible building, but apparently he hates it and it’s all President Obama’s fault for selling off at a ludicrous price prime real estate in central London for such a monstrosity in an ‘off’ location. He hates it, so he’s not coming to cut the ribbon.

Everybody here breathes a sigh of relief and tears up lists of possible things to throw –

rotten eggs – always popular?

yellow paint, maybe?

flour bombs?

or maybe umbrellas. Maybe we could litter the road in front of his car with unfurled yellow umbrellas. I just thought of that, but of course he would probably see it as a tribute.

UK Citizens showering me with golden umbrellas. Local custom I believe. ‘Nice’ of these peasants, but Sad!

Now we won’t get the chance, which is a bit Sad (though also a Relief) because we have a long creative tradition over here of being Gently, Incredibly Rude to people we regard as crass, common or beneath us in some way. Just read Jane Austen. Possibly Trump has been warned of this but by now he will have forgotten.

At least the Old Horror won’t be coming on the informal visit, but there is still the State Visit to contend with. Why exactly She rushed to offer him a State Visit – an honour American Presidents are usually only accorded in their second term of office – trade deal or no trade deal – so soon – at all, even – nobody knows, but now we are stuck with that dire event, looming on the horizon.

Admittedly both sides are doing a very good job at the moment of something I believe they call “kicking it into the long grass” or “kicking it on down the road” – in other words, failing to set a date, procrastinating, making no firm plans as yet…so we may escape.

If he does have to come over here (in which case rotten eggs, unfurled umbrellas and flour bombs will be the very least of his problems, protest-wise) I think the Queen herself may have supplied the answer.

She has recorded a TV programme about Coronations, which I believe is going to be shown tonight. I just saw a clip. There she sits, and they bring in the great Coronation Crown from the Tower of London, and place it reverentially in front of her. She leans forward, curiously. This is the first time she has seen it herself, up close, for many years.

She talks about the Crown, how heavy it was, back in 1953 when she was a mere 27 years old, and how lucky that her deceased father and she ‘both had the same shaped head’ so it more or less fitted her. She explained that it weighed such an awful lot – so much, in fact, that she had to remember to lift her speech to eye-level to read it, for if she had leant forward the weight of the Crown could have broken her neck.

She also talked about the Golden Coach. It was very uncomfortable, she said, and she was driven all round London in it – at least five miles. The coach had only leather suspension, which meant the occupants were constantly jolted about and felt every bump in the road. And it went on for ever because the horses could only go at walking pace – the State Carriage was far too heavy for them to do anything else.

So it seems to me that, if and when our civil servants (famed for their numerous and subtle delaying tactics) finally do run out of excuses to “kick it on down the road” and he really does insist on a Visitation of Himself upon Us, the best response would be to be All Smiles and Obsequity and arrange for him a very long sight-seeing trip around the many wonderful sights of our capital city.

He could visit our beloved Big Ben (whose ‘bongs’ are currently silenced due to a lengthy maintenance programme) and be driven around – and around and around and around – Nelson’s magnificent, pigeon perch of a Column. He could be taken to see the London Eye and Tower Bridge, and maybe that historic old ship they run past on the Marathon – even some of the outlying suburbs – ideal sites for new golf courses – and then there must be quite a few other historic buildings, plus of course that splendid new American Embassy…

embassy

Probably he doesn’t have piles – he looks pretty healthy for a man of his age, in spite of the fast food diet – but you never know.

Maybe we could arrange for it to also to be raining on the day of the Golden Coach. That really wet English rain that drives in through windows and soaks you to the skin. Almost certain to be raining, in any case…

Maybe he might even be allowed to wear the Coronation Crown, in the very uncomfortable coach, in the extremely wet rain, all the way round the sights of London and Greater London. He’d love to be the first American President to wear a Crown – can you imagine the tweets?

And with any luck it might just slip his mind about the hazards of that mighty jewel, and he might just forget and bend forward for a tiny moment…

I should like to be a horse

Queen Elizabeth II is more or less the same age as my Mum, but there the similarity ends. Oh no, they both have those old lady perms. Except that Mum’s has more or less grown out now. The ward where they section them doesn’t provide hairdressers, although you can import your own as long as it’s not at meal times (which take up most of the day) and as long as they have sixty days’ notice in writing, or whatever. It’s a very depressing place. If you weren’t depressed before you entered though those ultra-thick key-padded doors, you will be  pretty soon. Although there is the odd cheerful one. I suppose it’s when a jolly insouciance forms part of the illness. On Sunday I got a hug from a tiny hunched-up lady in a nightie, with a  surgical brace on one wrist. She asked me if I was from the circus. I wondered if perhaps I might be. She told me my Mum was confused. “I’m confused too,” she said, grinning up at me and opening her arms for another hug. I find it quite difficult to hug people, especially when they are half my height, but I did my best.

“What about her feet?” I ask. “She had a chiropodist… outside.”

“I’ll refer her for Podiatry,” says the nurse in the cherry red, hammering something invisible into the computer.”

“I believe there was a consent form for me to sign? It was going to be left behind the desk?”

“Form? Which form? Who exactly told you there was a form behind the desk?”

“Kate. Her name was Kate. She telephoned my sister.”

“Kate?”

“Have you checked her laundry basket for washing?” a nurse asks. I had no idea she had a laundry basket, or indeed where she was sleeping, or that washing was supposed to be dealt with by the next of kin of those who have been snatched from them against their wishes. Surely, if you take over someone’s life you take over their washing, too? Isn’t it your moral responsibility?

“Only in cases of incontinence,” the same nurse snaps.

“Our washing machine broke down this morning,” says another nurse. “Water all over the place.” That makes more sense. So why not just say that?

Mum says nothing. She slumps in an armchair and we try to talk to her. She asks if her house is still there, as if it might already have been demolished to make way for a row of cottage-style town houses with very little in the way of garden. She asks what she should do next. What do we want her to do? She doesn’t understand. Her eyes keep closing. She takes off her dust-smeared glasses and stares down into her lap. They’re all heathens in here. Heathens!

Anyway, the Queen apparently said, when asked as a child what she wanted to be when she grew up (a silly thing to ask the heir to the throne, I would have thought) that she should like to be a horse. And why not? I have often wanted to be a cat, a giraffe in the zoo, an aardvark, an octopus – almost anything that just gets fed and made a fuss of and isn’t expected to sort through a laundry basket of stale clothes on the Sunday before Easter in a tropically overheated hospital ward when she might have been home with her feet up on the coffee table watching The Andrew Marr Show.

Grouchy? Me?