As you have no doubt heard, the UK government basically imploded yesterday, and now we're back at square one with no prime minister. It would be funny if it weren't also a little frightening. I mean, are these really the best people available to run the country? Can't we do better than this?
Liz Truss and her ridiculous mini-budget were a disaster. I can't imagine what she was thinking, introducing some retro trickle-down fantasy at a time when food prices are skyrocketing by more than 10 percent and fuel is unaffordable for many. Still, I feel a little bad for her. There was a steady drumbeat of doubt about her from the beginning, and now she's become the shortest-serving prime minister in British history. It's like being the first contestant to leave the Bake-Off tent -- no matter how much of a disaster they may have been, you can't help but feel a little sorry for that person.
(She was still in office longer than the shortest-serving U.S. president -- William Henry Harrison died only 31 days after being inaugurated in 1841. At least then there was a vice president to neatly step into his shoes. Plus, he didn't face the ignominy of resignation.)
The big question now is, who's next? Apparently it could well be Boris Johnson, who is no doubt sitting back in some big club chair with a smug grin and thinking, "I don't look so bad NOW, do I?!" And there's still Rishi Sunak and Penny Mordaunt, and I'm just not excited about any of them. Of course they're all Tories so I tend to agree with Keir Starmer that we should have a snap election and perhaps put another party in power.
Alas, no one listens to me. But some things are going right around here:
I've suspended my scary Halloween bat over my desk in the library, much to the amusement of the kids who look for it every year. (It's actually been up for two weeks or so, about a third of Liz Truss's tenure in office.)
I also had a crazy episode with the laundry where I took our sheets to be washed. I threw a pair of Dave's pants (trousers, that is) into the bag as well, but when the sheets came back the pants weren't with them. Instead we got a towel that definitely wasn't ours.
Well, I took the towel back to the laundromat yesterday, thinking I would never see Dave's pants again, but lo and behold the laundry staff had them. Apparently the owner of the towel had turned them in. So I swapped the towel for the pants and voila! A happy ending.
If only swapping out a prime minister were that easy.
(Top photo: Me at an underpass near the Baker Street tube station, about a week ago.)