Monday
It is not a bank holiday in the US but for those of us who observed the coronation on Saturday, Monday is still very much a day of recovery, not least because in our time zones it all started before dawn. Like the British reluctance to watch US commentary for football matches, no one’s first choice for the coronation was the American networks. Savannah Guthrie in London for NBC News wore a lace-effect top that – nothing like a royal event to flush out one’s most unacceptable opinions – I thought was frankly inappropriate, and the NBC correspondents ran around with huge grins (also inappropriate). Needs must, however, and as it became clear that the BBC, tugging its forelock practically out by the roots, was going to skimp on shots of Prince Harry, it was necessary to switch channels.
The American broadcasters didn’t suffer the same squeamishness. “They’ve gone in hard on Harry and the Brooksbanks, look,” said my friend Tiff, who I’m compelled to keep an open call with during world events as she files overnight to the Australian papers. “Now they’ve got it on Andrew; NBC just flagrantly chasing the losers, here.” On the BBC, meanwhile, some tasteful shots of the second regiment of the Welsh guards.
There were coronation celebrations in New York, where the British consulate had, rather optimistically, rented a venue and sent out invitations to an event starting at 5.45am and which by 8am, one imagined, consisted of a variety of people tanked up on buck’s fizz. Not a single American I know watched it, which is a shame, because it was lovely. We speculated on what was helping Camilla through the day; admired Anne looking gloriously cranky on her horse; and cheered for a regiment of Australian soldiers. “I have to remind you that your people sent us out first in world war one to be slaughtered,” said Tiff. “Mum could tell you the names of the generals who did it.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“Well, we’re a beaten down people.” It was hard not to feel cheerful, and also happy to be in sunny New York not rain-soaked London – although some of the deeper mysteries of the event didn’t travel. “Who’s that with the sword?” said my Australian friend, a question which, in the moment, it was impossible fully to answer.
Tuesday
The New York Times drops a huge profile of Elizabeth Holmes in which the former CEO and convicted fraudster unveils what appears to be the latest evolution. Gone is the black turtle neck and deep voice – which Holmes claims, possibly with a pinch of truth, was a response to Silicon Valley not taking her seriously – to be replaced by soft pastels, scenes of domestic life and the diminutive “Liz”. Holmes hasn’t given a media interview since 2016 and lines from the piece such as, “William enjoys playing in the sand, The Little Blue Truck, dumplings and, like his mom, already speaks some Mandarin”, is a reminder that it is usually unwise to do so.
There were other, barbed observations. Holmes has been spending her time while she awaits the start of her 11-year prison sentence volunteering for a rape crisis hotline, something she shares with the reporter, Amy Chozick, as Chozick writes, before “I’d hardly sat down”.
What remains odd about Holmes is not, as the reporter writes, that she seems so “normal” these days, but how equal in contrivance the new incarnation seems to the old. Holmes might’ve Googled “good impression + jury + woman” and studiously worked her way through the results, with the slightly blank expression of someone also implementing the data on how “regular people” behave. In a blockbuster moment, in the article a friend of Holmes’ praises her to the skies, then requests anonymity to caution Chozick “not to believe everything Ms Holmes says”. It seems in the context like something of an understatement.
Wednesday
I don’t want to skip over the jubilation of a jury finding Trump liable for sexual abuse and defamation on Tuesday, and awarding his accuser, E Jean Carroll, $5m (£4m) in damages. The resonance of that finding will play out in the 2024 presidential election and Carroll, all smiles outside the court in New York, has done a profound and meaningful thing. But the shambles of Wednesday night’s CNN town hall with Trump adds a revealing and depressing coda.
Trump’s performance on Wednesday and the response of a crowd that, bizarrely, CNN packed with his supporters, made visible something that has tended only to be hinted at: that it’s less that Trump’s followers have blind faith in his innocence, than take delight in the shamelessness of his guilt. Quite apart from the moment when he appeared to re-defame Carroll, watching him slouch and gurn his way through the evening’s event left me feeling “angry in my body”, as my eight-year-old puts it, and also fervently wishing that one – any – of the news networks would put someone up against him who, rather than limply and fruitlessly correcting his false statements as he talks, is willing to say to him: “You’re lying.”
Thursday
It’s not polite to comment on how old people are when they have their children, but an exception can be made in the case of good old Robert De Niro, who has had his seventh child at 79, a year shy of the Charlie Chaplin benchmark for men doing things with total impunity that in women trigger horrified recoil. Is it gross? To have a baby that old? I mean it wouldn’t seem to be ideal. De Niro, whose eldest child is 51 and who had the child before this one at the relatively youthful age of 68, is enjoying a lot of lively coverage of the event. Despite his advanced age, most of the commentary around the new baby falls along the chuckly “is he a cool dad?” line rather than, say, might he consider taking this quick Am I a Narcissist? online quiz or talking to a licensed professional about family planning?
Friday
If De Niro can wrap his head around parenting children from both Gen X and Gen Z – although in the case of the new baby, “parent” as an active verb may be generous; one imagines De Niro doing some light emeritus parenting at most – I should be able to reconcile myself to the priorities of my two. The coronation continues to be a topic of discussion all week, but I can’t shed one particular, chilling memory. With attention waning by the time King Charles III appeared on the balcony, my two were suddenly yanked awake by an exciting visual: the Red Arrows flying over Buckingham Palace, coloured smoke streaming behind the nine planes while my children looked on with real interest. Too many hours spent on TikTok can come out in peculiar demoralising ways. “Is it a gender reveal?!” said one.
