Digested week: Crone Law cometh and in this heat it says cotton
Plus, bad form from Tay-Tay, Arthurian gladness and the conundrums of getting back on a bike
Monday
Another heatwave. Unbearable. And this one is going to push me over the edge. I’m going to have to take the young folk to task over how they dress. It’s not the amount of flesh on show – dear God, while you’re young and lovely and depilation is still worth the investment because it doesn’t all grow back by the end of the day, enjoy it! It’s the man-made fibres. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to pass an emergency Crone Law, requiring everyone to wear cotton once the mercury hits 30C.
Number one: it must be actively injurious to anyone to be clad under these circumstances in non-breathable tops and bottoms. And number two: it is actively injurious to me to see it. I cannot spend an entire summer mentally screaming at the under-25s to put on something wafty and comfortable before I combust simply by looking at them. It’s a million times worse than seeing them in the winter without their coats and freezing by proxy.
Crone Law is coming. And it cometh right soon.
Tuesday
A new bookshop has opened – always a cause for celebration (unless perhaps it is devoted to selling lavishly illustrated gift copies of Mein Kampf, I suppose. Even the most dedicated bookworm might have to take that under advisement.) This one – Bad Girl Books, in Jericho, Oxford – is the first to be dedicated to the genre that has taken the reading and publishing world by storm over the last few years: romantasy. That’s a blend of romance and fantasy, and a largely female fandom is going nuts for it.
As fandoms generally are, it is a glorious thing. And as female fandoms generally are, it has been underserved by mainstream providers. So, fed up with finding the same mere handful of books in her favourite genre that ordinary bookshops stocked, 30-year-old Starlin Marot (and honestly, with a name like that she really should be starring in a romantasy series herself) opened a specialist shop. I love this story.
More, I love the possibility it opens up for further specialisation. Could we next have a US-based-thrillers-with-some-violence-but-nothing-truly-gratuitous shop, please? Ideally, abutting a Pre-Tudor-historical-novels emporium and opposite a Books-that-have-been-adapted-for-screen-but-these-are-all-non-tie-in-editions-that-still-have-beautiful-illustrated-covers? Investors, call me.
Wednesday
I am very annoyed with Taylor Swift. Get married in private by all means, even if it requires commandeering Madison Square Garden to accommodate your security needs. But every bride owes the public a look at the frock. You need to provide the equivalent of getting out of the car and walking up the path to the church so the villagers can beam, sigh wistfully and talk about it for days and weeks and months to come. Years, if you looked truly terrible. It is this kind of thing that holds a society together. Bad form, Tay-Tay, bad form!
And I don’t know where to put my feelings about the fans buying cubes of trash gathered from outside MSG as a memento of the event. The entrepreneurial artist Justin Gignac went litter-picking after the event, gathering up pieces of detritus that may or may not have been discarded by celebrity guests, then packed them in sealed plastic cubes and sold them for $25 plus shipping online. Apparently, they went like hot cakes. I think I might have to talk to the young folk again.
Thursday
This could be, as the wildcard British entry faces a semi-final against the German No 2 seed Alexander Zverev on Friday, the best point at which to express our gladness for all that Arthur Fery’s unexpected success at Wimbledon has given us.
There are all the “King Arthur” headlines, obviously. And that reminds me – I’ll take a bookshop dedicated to the Matter of Britain, too (not least in the hope that it will remind the real Arthur that he promised to return in our hour of greatest need and, well … consider me gesturing widely at the state of things).
There’s the “Cross-Channel Fery” nickname, because our boy was actually born in Paris. The moniker is a bit effortful but that’s what gives it its quintessentially British feel. We share the Australians’ fondness for the practice, but not quite their gift.
And there’s the possible renaming of Henman Hill as “Arthur’s Seat”, which would be much more pleasing all round. Plus, see above – perhaps it will help recall the original to his sense of duty. Come on, Arthurs all.
Friday
The school summer holidays begin and as we look at our teenage son hunched over his gaming computer in a darkened room, his father and I ask ourselves the annual question: should we buy some bikes and try to become That Family instead?
None of us can ride a bike. That’s the first problem. I could once, but let me assure you that despite what one is told, you can and do forget.
Second problem: none of us is remotely physically coordinated. We could easily die in the attempt to learn to ride. More likely, I will break a wrist or two, be unable to type and the family will slide into penury and we’ll have to sell the bikes anyway. Unless husband or son obeys the Tebbitean strictures of our youth and gets on one to find work.
Third: we don’t want to. We’re lazy as well as useless. But I look at our gently yet remorselessly atrophying bodies and think that something must be done. But maybe not something in traffic?