Lack of inspiration prompted today’s column. I was plum out of ideas.
Mind you, what’s to come is true and authentic. Only desperation would drive me to a topic as embarrassing. Or prod acknowledgement of a fetish as lame.
So, after this swelling introduction, spun out to ridiculous length in a vain and timid attempt to postpone the inevitable moment of shame, the truth must out.
(You may stop reading here. Please? Please?! Please!!)
No?
OK. Putting on virtual armor. Gritting my teeth. Deploying a wince.
The British royals fascinate me.
Yes. For the two readers who remain, the British royals fascinate.
Just days ago, my smartphone opened to a headline, “Why the Royal Family Is So Worried about Harry and Meghan’s Bombshell New Biography.” My heart went “bump.” My breath quickened. And I read.
As I had often read about the British royals.
Oh, the shame.
The article’s content is immaterial. I don’t wish to inflict a fetish on sensible people.
Yet everything else about me suggests I’d think the royals are …
Malarkey?
And they are.
Fascinating malarkey.
