Oh my. How weird life works.
Earlier this way I wrote a piece about general things with a title that promised no royal baby mention. I’m a sort of republican; as in I don’t like the fact that we are subjects, not citizens; it’s a perpetuation of the class system, etc. Though I think it’s a diversionary argument in many ways. True power lies in the ever-swelling plutocracy, the true enemy. Etc, etc.
Even had an argument about it earlier. ‘It’s great for tourism!’ they demanded ‘Paris gets more tourists than London’ I responded, and went on to explain the tired joke I have as ready for such situations that involves improving the tourist take in the UK that involves guillotines and baskets.
So of course, life conspires to bite my arse. My genius Assistant Editor / designer on The Beestonian, Tamar Feast, sent me a message on Tuesday night reckoning that the new Royal Baby (I’m using caps here, not sure why) that the shawl she was wrapped in was one made by Hurts, the tiny shawl factory that abuts Barton House on Chilwell Road.
I was cautious, checking with other journos who told me that they’d made suppositions as such, but been told right bark, wrong tree. Tamar, however, kept robust despite my caution. And she was right. It was a shawl from Hurts. Blimey. We really are the centre of the universe.
And if she doesn’t mind, I’m going to wallow in the glory she has on scooping te ENTIRE WORLD on this one. Ta, TF!