The Week in the Ton – 6 July to 12 July

Dearest Gentle Reader,

This Author has weathered many a peculiar week in her long career of observation, but the seven days just elapsed have provided a collection of absurdities so richly varied that one hardly knows where to begin. Perhaps at the beginning, which is always the most sensible place, even if the Ton rarely manages it.

It commenced, as chaos often does, on a Monday – with The Palace Has No Room, The Pizza Has No Alibi, and Monday Has Opinions. A contested bed, a patriot whose private generosity had been quietly underwritten by others, and a pizza that could not account for itself. A perfectly representative opening to the week’s festivities.

Tuesday did not improve matters. The Spy Who Loved Violence, the Duke Who Missed His Bed, and the Loan That Was Not Quite What It Seemed introduced us to a spy whose machete habit troubled nobody in authority, and a government comparing lifelong debt to a telephone contract. With a straight face, no less.

By Wednesday, When Everybody Refuses to Play, Is It Still a Game? had delivered a theatrical resignation, a feverish sea, and an octopus with considerably more strategic clarity than Parliament. This Author found herself, not for the first time this week, envying the octopus.

Then came Friday, and history itself crossed the Channel. Nine Hundred Years of Patience, Rewarded at Last – the Bayeux Tapestry arriving home while a duchess quietly vanished from an itinerary and a political party found its accounts attracting the wrong sort of scrutiny.

Saturday offered When the Rappers Write to Judges and the Dukes Cannot Find a Room – a bail application of spectacular audacity and a royal visit that managed to be simultaneously calamitous and touching. And on Sunday, to crown it all, Murder, Ministerial Advice, and a Nation Quietly Combusting arrived, with fires both literal and political consuming what remained of the Kingdom’s composure.

The pattern, Gentle Reader, is not difficult to discern. Beds unavailable, debts obscured, spies indulged, seas warming, and a Chancellor departing with a smile that stopped precisely at the eyes. One might conclude that the Ton is in disarray. This Author would not dream of drawing such a conclusion aloud. She will merely note it, fold it neatly, and leave it here for your consideration.

Until next week, your most devoted and attentive observer remains, as ever, yours.