Monday
Donald Trump’s legal woes grow in Georgia, as the former president faces new charges of election interference, bringing his total felony count to 91 and returning his co-defendant – former Time magazine Person of the Year (2001), Rudy Giuliani – to the headlines. Like a Jane Austen heroine who allies herself with a plainer girl to accentuate her own charms, Trump’s proximity to Giuliani has the extraordinary effect of making him, temporarily at least, seem like not the worst or weirdest guy in the room.
In a prepared statement, Giuliani called his own indictment in the Georgia election scandal “the next chapter in a book of lies with the purpose of framing President Donald Trump” – or as Daniel C Richman, Giuliani’s former colleague at the US attorney’s office, characterised it to the New York Times, “his sad commitment to be relevant”.
It is almost poignant to watch, as if in slow motion, the unavoidable final stages of Giuliani’s decision eight years ago to throw his lot in with Trump play out. Too late to perform a Chris Christie-style about-face in midair and ditch the man he once shilled for; all that remains for “America’s Mayor” is a hope that Trump regains the presidency and rewards him.
Even in that eventuality, Giuliani’s fate isn’t assured. It is tempting to interpret the vaguely hysterical ring to Giuliani’s recent statements as a sign that the man is fully aware of Trump’s track record where loyalty is concerned. According to details revealed in Monday’s indictment, all that legal work Giuliani did for Trump following the election in 2016, and resulting in his present predicament? Trump never paid the bill.
Tuesday
After two weeks in a silent house without kids, my children are back from camp, 2ft taller and 10 years older. For them, the experience was an introduction to semi-independence and the novelty of trying to find clean pants every day while managing homesickness. For me, it was a reminder that however much time you have on your hands, you will fail to get any of the things you planned to do, done.
How is this possible? At the beginning of the fortnight, the days seemed endless, with the possibility of uninterrupted evening shifts too. For the first 48 hours, I embraced my freedom, jauntily starting work projects at 8pm and going out for coffee the following morning at 6am, just because I could.
A few days in, however, and I started to notice the creeping return of habits I haven’t seen since before I had the wrap-around excuse of young kids. I’ll do it tomorrow, I thought. There’s so much time why knock myself out. If I nap, now, the end result will be better. Just one mid-afternoon episode of TV, or maybe two, what’s the point of freedom if you don’t fully exercise it?
Midway through the second week and I arrived at a truth that is either profoundly cheering or depressing, depending on one’s view: having more time has no impact on productivity whatsoever. Now they’re home and I can go back to feeling comfortably stretched.
Wednesday
American friends travelling in Europe this summer return home to report a stark difference in attitudes towards water consumption in the old countries. “Hydration”, elevated to a religion in the US, is so under-valued in Europe, they say, that not only do restaurants fail automatically to bring you or refill your water at the table, but when Europeans go out for the day – even in soaring temperatures – it is often without water bottles. (The American tourist with a water bottle hanging off a carabiner at her waist could stand in for the bald eagle as a national symbol).
Rank disbelief filters in from those returning from Greece and Spain, where the casual attitude of the locals towards the three litres a day rule renders the Americans utterly mystified. Says one friend in amazement: “They’re like, we just get it from the cucumber in the salad or whatever.”
Thursday
It’s the end of an era with the announcement on Thursday of the death of Michael Parkinson, a figure who, like Wogan before him, embodied an almost weapons-grade geniality that seemed always, always to have been around. Lists of his best and worst moments abound in the wake of the news, among them his awkward interview with a diffident Meg Ryan, the famous segment featuring Rod Hull and Emu and, in Parky’s dotage, his chuckly appearances on the shows of many younger hosts, where his bonhomie rippled across the screen like a blast wave.
For my money, the best moment on Parky remains the appearance in 2004 of Dame Edna Everage – “there’s a little woman named Dame Judi Dench” – in which Parky sat tight, convulsed in giggles, reflecting the joy of the audience and, like the best hosts, letting his guest shine.
Friday
Australian comedy is on a tear right now, with the Aussie sitcom Fisk breaking through in the US this week via word of mouth, to join Deadloch as the funniest thing on TV. Fisk is set in a small Melbourne law firm, where the awkward heroine, wearing one of three identical brown suits in rotation, fails to have normal interactions with anyone.
It is deadpan and hilarious and, as with all Aussie TV shows, provides British viewers of a certain age with the added bonus of moving the silt of long-dormant memories.
Three episodes in and the penny drops on where I’ve seen Fisk’s aunt – actor Debra Lawrance – before; it’s only Pippa Fletcher from Home and Away (not the first Pippa, with the blond hair, but the second one, with the brown hair.) And stone me, in episode five there’s Alex Papps who played Pippa’s teenage foster son, Frank, now a middle-aged man. Frank, you might recall, married Bobby after Roo jilted him at the altar. I could go on.
