Boy, howdy, things are poppin’ at the White House.
The revolving door of Trump appointments is a lot like the big wheel that keeps on turnin’ while Proud Mary keeps on burnin’. Rollin’ rollin’ rollin’ on the river.
But last week drained all the drama out of Trump and the White House madness of the preceding weeks. It was as if tweet fever had come to the crisis point and then just petered out leaving Miss Fidditch with the deep sense that since anything can – and likely will – happen with the current (no)administration, there’s no point getting her knickers in a twist about any of it.
It’s over. She can relax, work in the garden, answer her mail, read a new book and generally ease on down the road.
That rude bully in the big white house can tweet, yammer, threaten, brag all he wants but, in truth, he’s played his hand and the adults have finally sent him to his room.
Hard to know if it was the Priebus thing or the health care thing or maybe he’s just mad because the Scots won’t let him build his second golf course thing. The Scaramucci thing might have done it (and there’s some reason to think Scaramucci’s interview was over the top even for Don).
But it doesn’t really matter. Mr. Shakespeare understood people like this better than anyone and wasn’t afraid to call it what it was. To wit:
“Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
No columnist from the New York Times or any other pundit could have said it better. As Miss Fidditch has often pointed out, literature covers all the bases and it takes more than a tweet to say anything worth reading.
So, as Cole Porter suggested, Miss Fidditch, too, suggests that you, “Brush up your Shakespeare, start quoting him now.” All this sound and fury? It’s happened before and it’s all in the books.
Books. You remember books? You can read them anywhere and there are no pop-up ads. Wonderful things – books. The older, the better.
No, Henrietta, a graphic novel is not a book. Not in Miss Fidditch’s library.