Like so many others, I found the unravelling of the Trump presidency compelling viewing. From the craziness of the campaigning through the awfulness of the post-election events and on to the siege-like security of the inauguration, it had the fascination of some dystopian-future movie, with the marauding gangs of Mad Max, leaders manipulating the populace à la Hunger Games, and more than a few reminiscences of Orwell’s Ministry of Truth and community hate sessions. But this wasn’t fiction. It was all too real.
Let us be frank: many people who know me, including friends and family, can get a little bemused or even concerned when my head seems to be stuck more in the sixth century (or the 14th or 19th or any other really) than by what “everyone thinks” now or by the latest research out of America says.
You, Dear Reader, know many things that I don’t. You know, for example, whether Trump won the American election, or at least whether there has yet been a final result. I am stuck in the past, in October. I don’t even know the result of that other first Tuesday race, the Melbourne Cup. You know, but you can’t tell me. Not now, not as I sit here writing. What you know is still in the future for me, still uncertain.