Trump, trum­pets and ti­tanic sea sick­ness

Harefield Gazette - - OPINION - Bm@il Ev­ery week BARBARA FISHER looks at is­sues that af­fect us all – the is­sues that get you talk­ing. You can join in by email­ing bmail­bar­

MR F and I have just re­turned home af­ter nearly four weeks abroad to dis­cover that autumn is def­i­nitely on the way, if not firmly bed­ded in. Which leads me nicely to Don­ald Trump who seems to think that all women are lin­ing up to get un­der his du­vet.

Pre­sum­ably that is only beau­ti­ful blonde clones, and not the ‘slobs’ and ‘dogs’; his de­scrip­tion of other fe­males.

Our trip was to Amer­ica and Canada where peo­ple are clearly very wor­ried about the out­come of the pres­i­den­tial race. It was quite an ex­pe­ri­ence to watch the first de­bate be­tween Trump and Clin­ton on TV, live, along with the rest of the USA.

Even bet­ter was vis­it­ing the Cot­ton Club in Har­lem – won­der­ful at­mos­phere; great jazz. We also had lunch with a friend of FJ* who works in NYC, and her Amer­i­can part­ner.

The hol­i­day was great, although the re­turn At­lantic cross­ing was very rough. I took to my bed like a Vic­to­rian lady mi­nus the smelling salts, while Mr F, im­mune to the lurch­ing and creak­ing of the ship, spent many a happy hour on his own in one of the bars.

I tried hard not to think about the Mar­itime Mu­seum in Hal­i­fax where we had seen some Ti­tanic ex­hibits (par­tic­u­larly when the cap­tain an­nounced that, at one point, we were not that far away from the site of the wreck). Mr F didn’t help by telling me, as he slid back into the cabin – the re­sult of the wine or the ocean mo­tion? – that he’d def­i­nitely just spot­ted an ice­berg.

Try­ing out my land legs again in Uxbridge af­ter our cruise, I popped into the Cen­tral Li­brary where I stum­bled on a group read­ing po­etry. I was pleased to ac­cept the in­vi­ta­tion to lis­ten in, and even more de­lighted to find my­self in pos­ses­sion of a com­ple­men­tary cof­fee and cus­tard cream.

Walk­ing out of the li­brary, I was stopped by a young man, who asked me shyly: “Ex­cuse me. Do I look al­right?” (This doesn’t hap­pen to me on a reg­u­lar ba­sis.)

He quickly ex­plained that he was go­ing for an in­ter­view.

“Right,” I said, “Stand up straight and let me look at you. No break­fast down your front. Nice shirt. Smart suit. You look great. Good luck.”

If the un­der­stand­ably anx­ious can­di­date in the blue suit hap­pens to read this col­umn, I do hope he will let me know if he got the job.

*Fisher Ju­nior

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