Except for my love affair with Downton Abbey, I was never a true Anglophile. Sure, I go for the occasional afternoon English tea party. Who doesn’t like strawberry jam, clotted cream and scones, which is just a fancy name for biscuits, served with great lashings of Darjeeling tea, the Queen’s preferred brew, naturally?
Lashings, for those of you déclassé Americans who don’t know their Earl Grey from Lapsang Souchong, means lots and lots of tea. Let’s face it, swilling tea from fine bone china cups, with pinkie finger extended, is just an excuse to get to the piles of petit fours, short bread cookies and sponge cakes.The point of this story was not to invite you to tea at the Goring Hotel, crowned best place to take tea by the Tea Guild, and yes, there truly is a Tea Guild that officially judges and crowns a best tea establishment annually, much like an Oscars for the tea aficionados. Can you imagine having that job! Mmmm, nibble, nibble, No, no the cucumbers are just not sliced thin enough.
I wanted to share my new found fascination with the Royals. It’s not so much Kate, smashing, Prince William, also smashing but it’s Baby George who has stolen my heart. He is beyond adorable and that family portrait of Baby George mugging it up with the royal pooch is just the bee’s knees. I think that’s a proper English saying.
Anyway, the other day I was slaving away on the elliptical, trying to shed the extra pounds from eating too much clotted cream, when a news story on the Royals’ trip to New Zealand flashed across the national news. There was the adorable bouncing Baby George. Followed by a nice shot of his posh parents greeting the Maori leaders in the traditional Hongi style of pressing their noses together. I was expecting the next shot to flash to the obligatory picture of native school children delivering a bouquet of flowers to the Duchess.
But no, suddenly there was the Royal family being greeted by a flesh and blood Maori Warrior Indian. This dude was decked out in his traditional dress or rather state of undress. Right there on our prudish American TV news, was a clear shot of a naked man, covered in tattoos. True it wasn’t the Full Monty but it was a long lingering shot of bare butt cheeks, with sort of a thong like contraption that wrapped around his front into a teeny grass skirt. He also sported a large and impressive wooden spear.
I could just imagine the briefing. Try not to stare, don’t look down if the wind blows and don’t make any comments on his sizable spear. Oh a day in the life of a Royal. Jolly fun! Cheerio!
Do you think I’m developing an English accent?