OK—the only good thing to come out of yesterday was the
realization: I’m much better off than Queen Elizabeth of England.
The day started with an emergency breakfast, since Lord—the
brother of Lady, who owns the café—was going to arrive with his 25-foot serpiente, since our kitchen sink,
always temperamental, had had a complete breakdown, and was tremendously
refusing to do what a sink should do: drain.
The plunger had been tried, boiling water had been tried,
Draino had been tried, a huge Shop-Vac had alternately blown into and out of
the respirator of the drain. And at last, and not without considerable sweat
from Lord, the 25-foot was introduced. No luck.
OK—time to go to the hardware store, and buy a 50-foot
snake. With even more difficulty, 30 feet of this snake—more like a boa, now
that I think about it—was introduced, but the obstacle was impenetrable.
“I have no idea what the hell this is,” said Lord, looking
at what was a thick, grey, slightly greasy paste, “but it’s definitely not
food-related. Never seen anything like it…”
In the meantime, my sister-in-law had called and dropped the
news: in a moment of supreme luck, my 25-year nephew had impressed some
high-tech company that was now happily going to pay to build him a high-tech
studio, and then pay him $50,000 a week to do whatever he does. Oh, and he only
has to work one week a month.
So Lord had spent four hours sweating to ream out the drain,
and I had spent a hundred bucks paying him, all the while sitting on the
kitchen floor, in completely useless solidarity with Lord. And why? Because the
chikungunya was particularly awful yesterday, my feet and ankles were
especially affected, and I was utterly exhausted. Oh, and without a kitchen
sink.
Time to confess: somebody needs to invent a new concept—self
sorrow. Because self-pity is justifiably despised, but aren’t there times when
truly, truly, you have a right to feel sorry for yourself? For over a month
I’ve been in varying states of pain, I’ve been tired, I’ve not been able to
exercise or play the cello, or even write. Oh, and did I mention that the disease
also produces depression?
“It would probably do you good,” said my sister-in-law, when
I confessed that I had this inexplicable desire to cry. But it wasn’t crying
yesterday, but keening and wailing. The poet Gerard Manly Hopkins
said it better:
Why
do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment
all I endeavour end?
And
who was the sinner? Sorry, but it was my 25-year old nephew, who has had
wonderful parents, excellent schools, and is now getting 50 grand a week once a
month. If he bothers to do it for two years, he’ll be a millionaire.
I
feel guilty about it now, but I didn’t then. I was raging at life, at the
disease that had robbed me of my life, and the injustice of a young man who has
had so much, and has been given so much. The Manley Hopkin’s poem ends, “Mine,
O though lord of life, send my roots rain.” I was considerably less eloquent.
So
what to do? Life teaches you—you wail, then you get up to do the rest of your
day. First, of course, was to get to Ayurveda,
down the street, since if my only hope from Western medicine is Tylenol and
water? Screw that, I’m in the arms of the Hindis, or at least their traditional
medicine. And the clerk, instantly, had the answer: colloidal silver and
turmeric. Total cost: 47 dollars, which I would have paid for even one moment
of relief.
Wailing drains you of energy, nor could I be
alone; I had to have people around me. So that meant the café, and YouTube,
which is—at times—the only thing I can do. And what—for whatever reason—was
YouTube suggesting I watch? The Royal Servants.
Was
it ridiculous? Of course—but it was all I could manage. So now I can tell you
that Prince Charles has a really bad temper; once dropped a silver stud down a
sink in a house he was visiting. In a rage, he tore the sink out of the wall,
retrieved the stud, and then decided to almost throttle the butler. Right—so
think twice before you invite the guy to your house.
The
other thing I learned? The queen and the royals are essentially at the mercy of
their servants—who know how to do things they can’t do (such as put in their
own studs….) And then consider the case of Princess Diana’s butler, Paul Burrell, who, if he
didn’t kiss, definitely told. So the royals are in a fishbowl, and any wailing they
want to do? Sorry, guys—tough luck.
And
the relationship of—at least—the queen to her servants? Well, apparently it’s
utterly impersonal: there is a barrier, and it is never breached. On the day
one of them left service—after many years—he tucked the queen and her husband
into the car, spread the rug over their knees, and stood stiffly at attention. The
queen gazed forward—knowing perfectly well that the servant was leaving
service. Did she so much as glance at the man? According to the source—no.
And
here it might be time to admit—I never read or watch anything about the royal
family, since it seems to me disrespectful. Do I need to know that Princess
Margaret, a chain-smoker, had to have someone around her always, holding the
ashtray so she could flick away without looking? Isn’t it enough that these
people are always having to smile, to wave their silly waves, to say the things
that have to be said but that they may not possibly mean? Though I did enjoy
the story about the Queen Mother’s reaction when a footman spilled piping hot
gravy down the queens cleavage.
“I’m
dreadfully sorry, your Majesty,” said the footman.
“The
fault was all mine,” replied the queen, “I’m afraid I nudged your elbow.”
In
fact, she had done no such thing.
Well,
the colloidal silver and turmeric may be working, because today I’m better,
feeling guilty about my pique at my nephew, and wondering if Prince Charles was
truly such a jerk. Had I been fair? Would my father, striding through the
celestial newsroom, approve?
Well,
time to spend an hour with Charles, and check out his ambitious project in an
impoverished area of Scotland. And since part of the project features Dumfries House, which
besides being built in the 1750’s by Robert and Charles Adam, has all the
original furniture by—among others—Chippendale. For a certain type of gay man,
stuff like this is a variant of pornography…..
So
I followed the Prince around, and no—I’m happy to say that he was on his best
behavior. So I was explaining all this to Lady, and telling her how—at least
I—thought the Prince was doing something a little more worthy than sitting
aroun waiting for the old lady—I mean his mum—to die. Save a beautiful house,
start a housing project, train people in traditional crafts, get ‘em working as
guides and butlers and wedding planners—hey, not bad. Then I told her about the
colloidal silver.
“I
wouldn’t, if I were you,” she said, echoing what the good Taí had said, “since
it will turn your skin blue.”
My
skin blue?
So
now I have a choice—walk around like an Anglo-Saxon with woad warpaint, or
crawl around wincing in pain at any movement I make.
Well,
at least I’m not depressed about it…..
