The news came over the wire at the American Express office in Hydra and we dashed back to town to the Ochre and Brown to assim-ilate it all. The concièrge explained, She's the obvious choice - not only the one running mate who is equally marginal and rejected, she is the one who brings the scar of Trump's victimisation to the table, as a badge of feminism. She is also the only candidate who reviles Planned Parenthood even more than our Ted (having invented the whole foetus-sale big lie), health insurance even more shrilly, and equality every bit as frantically as our Ted.
She, in a word, fits. Can you not hear their parts harmonised in right-wing synchromesh, even as they rocket round the Circus of their bitter Coliseum: every gear change up an exultation of neurotic transcendence; every one down, a groaning, simpering begging for divine intervention?
Time to recalibrate our dread of Clytemnestra, then, would you say? Time for a flight into the duvet and a toke of some recyc-led air? But our true Clytie (Britten's dachsie, we recall) lent her name to a far grander purpose than parsing the cinders of our Parties. This is just a very pretty example, if the loveliest so far, of a season summoning many winding sheets.
Boglioli S/S 2016