DC: The Heart of American Politics

Here we are in Washington D.C., where everybody knows your name.


Now, this is the heart of American politics, but it’s very hard to get a handle on it. We haven’t had the chance to go inside the White House yet, possibly because it’s so hard to identify. All of the buildings here seem to be white.

You’d think the President would want to live somewhere a little bit more stand-out, like Downing Street where number 10 and number 11 have different numbers on the door so you can tell which is which.

So while we wait for Mr. Obama to extend an invitation, we’re exploring the city and its surroundings.

We actually did a bit of shooting with some older ladies in Richmond. They call themselves GRITS (Girls Really into Shooting), although I think the term girls is pushing it a bit.


As far as I can make out they are members of an absolutely marvelous retirement community. They get let out every day to go and play with their guns and drink a good amount of booze. I’m sure they’re home and fast asleep by 7pm, which must make it so much easier for the nurses who look after them.

I’d do the same with mother but with the inheritance issues currently surrounding our family, I just wouldn’t trust her with a shotgun.

We then went to meet some more girls who weren’t actually girls. Poppy and I popped along for brunch and a drag show at Nellie’s which was a real eye opener. I just couldn’t keep my mind on my sausages!

I just kept wondering where their sausages were being hidden, and how? Also, if it’s all taped up then how do they wee? Do they have to stand with their backs to the urinal? So many questions.

Poppy was a bit perplexed too. She thought she had amazing hair! Also their deep, rich tans were making her feel as if she should spruce up a bit. I just feel so sorry for women and their body image problems. Luckily I am, and always will be, as plain as a worm, so none of this will ever bother me.


Now it hasn’t all been fun and frolics, we went for a really boring meeting with a congressman who was supposed to be answering all of our questions about politics and gays, etc., when in fact he kept popping out to “go and vote," which is something that only happens about once every four years in our country but seemed to occur every ten minutes for this chap.

Maybe he kept getting it wrong?

Eventually we got bored and left. Also, we needed to go home and get changed for the opera.


We decided that it would be lovely to take Father along, as he was a real opera buff and would love to meet the cast, as well as hear the delightful singing which was not at all too long or boring. Neither Poppy or I fell asleep for the whole of the second act.

We did manage, however, to get ourselves in a bit of a sticky patch (or should I say dusty) during the after party. They really should make the fastenings on these urns more secure, I ask you.

Still, Father would have been happy to leave a little piece of himself at the opera. He always used to leave a balled-up pile of tissues in his box anyway. It was the only place he felt at peace to express emotion.

So instead of tears, this time he has left only dust. And what else is dust but dried tears? It’s all come full circle!

Until next week, lords and ladies of America.