Binge watching VEEP (a series, I discovered only yesterday, so far, I’ve made it to season 2/episode 4, laughing out loud every five minutes) has made me not leave my couch for quite some time now, except for short runs to the fridge in order to get some fresh supply of strawberry cheesecake icecream (not from that really famous brand, but from the other really famous brand, you see, their cheesecake layers are a bit saltier, which is a nice contrast to the sweetness of the strawberries, but I digress), a dessert, or basic nutrition, which I have grown addicted to as swiftly as to Selina Meyer and her wonderfully obnoxious crew. I wonder what I will do after the end of the last season… not much, I guess; probably, I won’t be able to move at all by then…
What is happiness all about? The calm happiness, I mean, the one without any adrenalin rushes, just the kind that’s keeping your serotonine levels on a pleasant high, is it really just something good on TV, say The Crown, or Feud, that tour de force that made me love formerly hated Susan Sarandon, and grow soft on Joan Crawford, that mess of a woman, although she was right about those wire hangers, granted, that was actually Faye Dunaway’s version of Crawford, but still, wire hangers are not an option, and something to keep you alive during binge-watch, salami, baguette and some champagne, is that really as good as it gets? Yes, believe you me, it doesn’t get any better, this is how our life was meant to be, lions rest in the sun, birds fly high in the sky, we do this. So, as a piece of simple advice, you better quit the gym, your friends and your job, gracefully or cold turkey, that’s up to you, just make sure they stop calling, and stock up on Bollinger. Season 2 of Killing Eve is on and demands all attention.
I spent the entire day in the garden, comfortably installed in a chair, looking at what was in front of me, and wasn’t bored a single moment. He must really be into roses, you might think, and partially you’re right, but truth be told, I had my iPhone with me, initially to take some more shots of the garden in bloom, when it suddenly occurred to me that I had Netflix on it, now an Obama approved entertainment device, and as I felt like something British, I started the original version of House of Cards, after I had made tea of course, as I can’t watch anything British without the most British beverage there is, tea. Over Fortnum & Mason’s Royal Blend—royalty, by the way, is quite British, too— I took a crash course in advanced manipulation and found Ian Richardson’s Francis Urquhart much more interesting a character than Kevin Spacey’s Frank Underwood, you may replace “interesting” by other adjectives such as vicious, refined, monstruous, vile, evil, foul, wicked, elegant, cynical, or pleasant. Pleasant, mainly because I like a character, any character, well played, quite especially such a complex character as this excelling manipulator on the run. Well done, Mr Richardson. I watched series 1 entirely, intermitted with occasional looks to the left and to the right, to hydrangeas in bloom and ageing terracotta pottery, and if it weren’t for my cat and his dinner, I’d still be outside, watching series 2 and my garden in the moonlight.
Can one miss something one has never experienced? I do think so. I for one miss cocktail hour. I miss dressing up for drinks. I miss not being forced into a tuxedo after six – just like Jack Donaghy, Alec Baldwin’s character in 30 Rock. When asked by Liz Lemon aka Tina Fey why he was wearing a tux, he replied: “It’s after six, what am I, a farmer?”. I love such traditions, and I want them back, just like in the 60s when even the most provincial of German TV families, the Hesselbachs, styled themselves up. Such glorious times. I really miss them.
Today, I subscribed to Netflix because I finally had to watch The Crown. It was a wise decision, Prince Philip’s naked butt was totally worth it. In every single angle. I must say, I really envy Her Majesty. But apart from that gorgeous display of the finest human flesh, I learned a lot. Apparently, they had rats in Buckingham Palace’s kitchen, how very disturbing. But that’s only details. Actually, it was heartbreaking. When George VI had half his lung removed in an operation at Buckingham Palace, I immediately felt like quitting, he, however, kept on smoking till the very end of his life. I wonder what Her Majesty must have thought, first watching her father’s right lung being thrown into a medicinal bowl, and only minutes later witnessing, decades later, these rats loiter with intent in the palace’s kitchen whilst her recovering father’s breakfast is being prepared? Noblesse oblige, I guess. Nonetheless, at least from today’s point of view, so extremely health conscious as we all have become, banning smokers everywhere, George VI is portrayed with such warmth, love and respect, I actually was really moved by his passing just now – and had to have a cigarette in his honour. Here’s to you, Bertie. I hope you rest in heavenly peace.