A Matter of Adoption

What Ho Proles!

Being confined to one’s sick bed isn’t good for one’s health. Every bit of trouble knows exactly where to come and stick its beastly beak.

This afternoon, as I tried to get my thick head into Le Carré’s latest, representation was made to me regarding My Man’s proposal to adopt a Malawian child. As you may know, I’ve been against the whole silly business since it was first proposed a few months ago, but now things have reached such ridiculous proportions that the whole affair would not seem out of place in Ionesco. I’m given to telling him to drop the whole matter, but, of course, that would mean my speaking to Mrs. My Man, and I don’t mind admitting that I’m slightly afraid of the woman. She domiciles in the estate lodge and has the responsibility of training and feeding the Dobermans that patrol the grounds at night. It can’t be much of a life, I suppose, and she spends most of her time complaining about needing more elastic bands. What she uses them for, I really have no idea, but I guess she thought an infant would bring her some companionship. Realistically, it can only end in heartbreak.

Today, I had a phone call from some Malawian High Commissioner with whom I’ve been pulling strings in order to get My Man on the list for one of these little chaps. As I understand it, some pop star has first dabs, but now it appears that the Malawians are a bit upset with something I said on TV last week and are demanding an apology before they’ll consider My Man’s case. Well, I say: let them wait. There are plenty of young tykes in the village and if Mrs. My Man wants a child, she has my blessing to take her pick. I can’t help but feel that the whole thing reeks of poor taste.

Until later.