wLast week, Atching Keer's Starmer with Washington's President Trump was like watching his lavish grandparents deal with a scoundrel child. When the Prime Minister created an invitation from King Charles – “This is unprecedented!” he said with delight that it would be Don's second visit to England. I was half expecting he would follow up with the White House Lego model or a special Trump Pess dispenser and a supply of cola-flavored sweets for that.
Alas, I can't equally corn Elon Musk's order against a federal employee who told him in an email of five things they've accomplished last week. Oh yeah, that's ridiculous. Who will look into these and how will they check the points of the enclosed bullet? But as my own obsessive list maker, my anger is on the calm side. Awful, I shuffle the notebook. Their closely written pages escape a page full of resolve, ambition and pity like a tragic hybrid of Adrian Mogre and Martha Stewart.
Ah, effort. As for immediate action, I have three lists on the go at once. What to do today. To do this week. I'll do it at some point soon. However, this is nothing compared to my list of future achievements. These are planktonic and ambiguous, headlines along the lines of “ideas,” “thinking,” or (embarrassing) “Composers should enter.” The most embarrassing thing about them is “what I want” (painting by Ivon Hitchens, or a little Chanel, failing to do so).
As for the year-end list, they take a lot of outfits from praise (what I did what I like) and from every new novel I read (I don't count old novels). Protestant autodeduct cannot work without a list. A few days ago, this column began as “items for notebooks” and once completed, another column is erased.
Gasman is coming
Living in a cold snap without a boiler for three weeks is an appreciation and stoic practice. When the British Gas man finally arrives to save us, I forgive him even when he accidentally breaks his favorite vase. I could now kiss our fiercely hot radiators and still build a home shrine of some kind in their honor.
During this refrigeration period, my fingers and toes began to burn, itchy, and I was confused at first. Perhaps our Captain Oates jokes were about to stop being funny. (I say, “I might just go outside and do it for a while.”
But then I remembered: I was here before as a teenager. The kids, it was cold at the time, so my parents were even more stingy with the thermostat. I had the chillbrain. This is a paradoxical Dickensian illness that can only become more painful when your limbs begin to warm up.
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Face view
To the National Portrait Gallery for Celebrating exhibition face Magazine, it makes me sad. Many of the faces on the wall – Alexander McQueen of fashion designer singer Steve Strange – is now dead. And while a few young people take photos of the photo, most people are choosing their hair with their hair, not for their hips, but for comfort.
I used to work with Isabella Blow's late stylist and I always feel a bit guilty about stumbling over her work. At the time I was obsessed with her expenses and believed they were bigger than my salary (I might not have been wrong). But she recalls a stunning photograph by Sean Ellis (taste of taste). It pushes up all the thoughts of a taxi receipt neatly from my heart.
