I’m sure that if you have been reading this blog for any length of time, you’ll have an incline that, politically speaking, I’m a bit of a leftie. Add any insult to accompany that if you feel the need. If you do feel inclined it’s a fair bet I won’t care.
You’ll probably also be able to make a stab at what I think of Margaret, there is no society only individuals, Thatcher. Loathsome creature. Yet I miss that straightforward approach to politics, you knew where she stood. She’s been in my thoughts this week, mainly due to the latest series of The Crown.
The Crown, what a treat.
I had to remind Cornflake, more than once, that it’s not a documentary. Later it was his turn to remind me, several times. It is so believable, interspersed as it is with familiar outfits, speeches, people. The historically well reported elements lend an air of truth to the fiction that is deliciously plausible, convincing.
Fact and fiction, faction?
At first I thought that Gillian Anderson’s portrayal of Mrs T was a pantomime, but no, when you watch news reel of the woman herself, Ms A is spot on. This opens the door to the prospect that the scene of Thatcher playing a drinking game with her Maj and family at Balmoral, may well have happened. Nothing, I mean nothing, on tv has made me scream with laughter like that bit of televisual fabulousness since I don’t know when.
My subscription to Netflix has never felt so worth while.
You may find this next bit of information disturbing, Cornflake just did, I share a birthdate with her, Mrs T. I would be more concerned myself if this fact wasn’t counter balanced by the knowledge that the two of us also share the day with Sir Cliff Richard.
On a different but connected note, I have purchased a new iron for work. It does exactly what its product description said it would do. Which is a lot. Marmalade and I are very impressed with it’s efficiency. Switch it on, job done. In addition to its straightforward operation, unexpectedly, it lights up, it bleeps and can turn my tiny studio into a steam room of sorts. It’s a power house disco of an iron. Marmalade suggested we give it a name in appreciation of its efficient contribution to team tart.
We’ve named it Maggie, after the Iron Lady.
If I continue with this naming convention of items, based on them having at least one characteristic similar to a politician for whom I have no time, I could call our next hard to move on mouse guest, Trump.
I’m at a loss to think of one item that I’ve got, or have ever had, that is such an almighty, useless, waste of space that I’d name it Johnson though.
fat tart 