Writings

2. Apr, 2022

The Gilded Age, or, Yankee Doodle Downton

The Gilded Age has closed its  snobbery tarnished portals early, leaving us in suspense on several accounts.

Will acerbic 'Old New York' Aunt Agnes recover from finally being forced to countenance civilites with pushy 'New Money' Mrs Russell? Will Mr Russell's gigantic fireplace continue to grow in the background of every shot of him seated at his desk in front of it? Not that anybody else seems to have noticed. I was expecting him to be devoured by its great maw any time, leaving everybody wondering where he had gone. Will Mrs Russell's stiffly ornate dresses start walking around on their own, startling visitors on the stairs? They're certainly robust enough to get about themselves by the look of them. 

Characters and plot raced into view from the off. Marion's encounter with the young solicitor dealing with her deceased father's affairs was bound to lead to romance. And he was far too pink and gurning to be everything he cracked himself up to be. She meets Peggy, a young black woman, by chance at the station and they are united from there on in the story, neatly tying in the racial divide existing in America at the time. 

There was some lovely waspish and witty dialogue, the dowager type characters getting most of the best lines, as in Downton Abbey, and the social conflicts of upstairs and downstairs were very well done through the families and staff. 

But - will Peggy find her baby again? Will Marion end up with young Mr Russell instead (a niceish sort who wants to be an architect instead of a ruthless entrepeneur like his father)? Will fiendish Oscar (aka Groucho Marx) trump his gay lover by securing young Gladys, now she has at last 'come out' , as a rich wife? 

I certainly didn't expect it to end on episode 9, and neither did anyone else, not by the way the characters were going on like billyo, but all is not lost. A season two has been commissioned, so Mrs Russell has not poignantly  held her first successful party after 8 episodes of being snubbed, in vain, after all.

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall 

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And  my own ted  must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds, 

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.