#like do you clearly remember what 10 wealthiest people's children look like?

[vayneoc]

Hanako

and Vayne

[virareve]

Summary: 

“Didn’t you hear? Kit Tarth’s a Lannister!”

Twenty-five years after Brienne and Jaime went their separate ways, they reunite for their daughter Catelyn’s wedding.

Chapter posted at link and below (for those who prefer reading on Tumblr):

When was the last time Brienne had allowed herself to dream about love?

When she was a girl, still blessed with naivete and optimism of the young, she dreamed of marrying her fairytale prince on the shores of Morne. She would join herself to her husband in the shadows of the castle that Ser Galladon had once resided. Her parents would stand in witness, eyes filled with tears. Alysanne and Arianne would be grown women with loves of their own by then, excited for the day they too would marry. Galladon, her beloved brother, would be the one to walk her before the septon. The sun would shine its familiar, gentle warmth, and the sea would shine its brilliant blue that her father claimed was matched by no other blue but her eyes. The wind would make her hair flutter around her like a halo, and as she promised herself to the man she would stand by forever, he’d see her at that moment, sunlit and wild. He would think her the sun and moon made flesh.

For reasons tragic and practical, that dream would never be. The cliffs in Morne had become unstable from years of tourist use. Her mother and siblings had all died before her tenth year, and her father had passed just the last year. She had no prince.

But The Seven had given her a different gift. Her daughter, Catelyn, Kit as she was called early on, was Brienne’s greatest accomplishment. Brienne had once wanted to be the fairytale princess, but raising one, gave a different sort of pleasure from what that fantasy prince would have.

Fortunately, Kit would never know the same heartbreak Brienne had when it came to love. Love came to Kit early on in life in the form of Sansa’s oldest boy Ned. It took over two decades for the best friends to articulate the deep-seated feelings, but they were past that now. And had reached the stage few made where fantasy turned reality. Oftentimes as she contemplated Kit and Ned over the last few years, Brienne wondered if she had ever worn the same look of love.

“Champagne?”

Brienne startled as someone slid into the chair beside her and held out a glass of chilled bubbly.

“Jaime,” she greeted, surprised to see him. They had not spoken in two days. She glanced speculatively at the glasses in his hand, raising a brow. “A bit past the point for champagne isn’t it?” Speeches and toasts had all well been hours ago and if what she remembered about Jaime still rang true, bubbly was not his preferred choice of drink.

“Tyrion is going around trying to convince people to drink more of that godsawful Northern shit he gifted Kit and Ned,“ Kit’s father smirked. “Arm yourself before he tries to convince you to take a horn.” He passed a glass over to her. His fingers were dry and warm.

If she were a lesser person, Brienne thought her breath might have hitched, shocked to press even the slightest skin against his. “I can’t believe he bought 800 horns of fermented goat's milk. We’ll be lucky if the Giantsbanes can finish one.”

Jamie snorted. “He just found out I was once with someone who wasn’t Cersei. And had a kid at that. To him, it’s like Sevenmas came early.”

Brienne nodded, giving him a stiff smile and looked at the dance floor...only to end up cringing with motherly embarrassment. A horn toting Kit looked like she was about to perform a very public lap dance for a delighted and equally sloshed (and horn holding) Ned to the tune of the wedding party hit “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” by the Brave Companions. Several guests had their phones out, hooting the bride and groom on, and Brienen resigned herself to a 4K replay on Ravenbook tomorrow.

Her eyes slid over to Jaime, curious to see what he would think. He looked amused and directed her to check out Tommen on the opposite side of the dance floor.

“Ree’s going to eat him alive,” she commented as Tommen looked equally terrified and aroused as Sansa’s oldest girl plastered herself all over him.

“If she wasn’t the spitting image of her mother, I’d be certain she was Margaery’s,” Jaime laughed.

Brienne missed that sound. It was genuine, light, and carefree. It tugged and plucked at her wound up heartstrings. She’d worked so hard to prepare herself for seeing him again, but their twenty-four years of separation had done little. Maybe if he’d been angry at how long he’d had to go before Kit would reach out to him to meet on Tarth for her wedding week, it might have been easier to brush off any residual feelings. Jaime was not. He’d been genial from the beginning. The only friction, if it could be called that, was his continued insistence that he help pay for the wedding but even that was a pleasant insistence to help out.

From his first interaction with Kit at the Sunday family clambake to the ceremony and reception, he’d been nothing but pleasant and civil with her. And he was absolutely enamored with his youngest child.  He hadn’t tried to bring up either time in Winterfell and only brought up Kit, his children, and his work when they were near each other for placid small talk. It was all going along extremely well and yet Brienne could not relax, she couldn’t stop waiting for something to go wrong now that he was here.

“I was hoping we could talk,” Jaime said, breaking the quiet spell between the two. There was a rhythmic thud starting on the ground near their feet. Brienne looked down instead of looking at him and noticed the heel of his shoe sole was tapping against the ground in a discordant beat.

“What’s it now?” she sighed, “The DJ? The videographer? Sansa and I already settled it.”

Jaime gave her a measured look.

“Wench, you know I’m not here to talk about the bill.”

She shook her head. “Don’t call me that,” she said, severely. She got up from her chair. “Thanks for the drink. That reminds me that I should check in with the bartender.”

Jaime jumped up. “Brienne,” he huffed, “I’ve been treating you with kid gloves all week. I gave you space at the rehearsal last night and then today because I understood how important Kit’s wedding is, but you can’t seriously expect us not to talk about this.”

Brienne pursed her lips. “It would be easier for us if you didn’t.”

“Easier for who?” he asked, waving a hand between them. “It doesn’t make it easy if we don’t talk.”

Brienne stepped past him. “I’m not doing this with you again.”

Jaime released a deep exhale.

“It’s a little late for that,” he called after her. “I was hoping we’d get to talk yesterday morning but we never got to have a proper conversation because someone decided to leave before I woke up.”

Brienne was thankful everyone had vacated this area of  tables for the dance floor so that there were no witnesses when she blushed. But not too far off some of Kit’s friends watched them curiously. Everyone was clearly interested in whatever her shared history with Jaime was. After it became known among the guests that small town, island rose Kit Tarth was actually the child of one of the wealthiest men in the Six Kingdoms, friends and distant family were eager for further details.  But no one outside Sansa, not Kit, not Margaery, not the rest of the Starks, knew. And Sansa and Brienne were not willing to divulge details.

Brienne released an annoyed exhale and looked back at him. “Fine, follow me.” She hurried them out of the view of the celebrating couple, out of the sight of nosy guests, and past the observing eye of the knowing few who looked at them with some sort of expectation. She brought him to the unlit, cordoned off gardens of Evenfall, and he followed her, hovering like an impatient puppy at her heels. She stopped abruptly when they reached her mother’s old hibiscus garden. She whipped around to face him. Jaime stumbled back. A nighttime breeze caught in his shirt, rippling under his shirt and exaggerating his step back.

“Why won’t you leave this alone?” she hissed, trying to make herself look looming and menacing.

Jamie made a grumbled complaint under his breath. “I love you,” he declared, deadpan and apropos of nothing.

Brienne’s jaw dropped. “ Excuse me? ”

“I love you,” Jaime repeated, briefly looking as if he might enjoy seeing how much he’d shocked her. “I never stopped.”

“You can’t mean that! You don’t know me,” Brienne countered, feeling half dizzy and half breathless from the whiplash of Jaime’s declaration. “It’s been too long. I’ve changed! You’ve changed!”

“I’ve had a week to see you’re still everything I fell in love with,” he argued, “I know I’ll fall in love with all the new things about you that I haven’t learned yet.”

“You’re insane,” she declared, backing away.

“Wait.” He stepped toward her, holding a hand up like he was approaching a skittish animal. “Please listen to me.”

“Jaime,” she warned. She warily watched him. The breeze continued to dance around them, picking strands of her hair up and causing them to glint as they refracted moonlight.

He stopped, mesmerized by the vision of her cast in luminescence. “Did you know I dream of you?” he confessed in earnest. “Even after all these years, you still visit me from time to time when I sleep. And when I wake, I hate myself for breaking your heart.”

Brienne pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to revisit Winterfell and revisit those experiences in the frozen North. But her mind disregarded her and she flashed into those dark memories. And despite the warm summer air, Brienne turned cold as if she was back in Winterfell, and the chill was seeping into her bones.

“I let you disappear from my life to make up for how I wronged you,” Jaime continued. “And I know it was the right thing to do, but every time I think about it, it feels like I made a mistake.” She watched his hand ball into a fist at his side. “Brienne, there’s never been anyone else for me.”

Once upon a time, Brienne had hoped to hear such ardent words from Jaime but he’d firmly shown her she wasn’t enough. “Why are you talking to me like a Hallmark card?” she asked, “Is this about Kit?”

“Kit?” Jaime looked at her, incredulously. “Why the Seven would it be about Kit?” he grumbled. “This is about you..”

“Why?” Brienne pressed him.

Jaime rubbed a hand down his face, “Because you’re worth going head-to-head with your willful bullheadedness until you hear what I’m literally spelling out for you.”

“What about Cersei?” she reminded him, invoking the specter.

“There is no Cersei. There hasn’t been for years.”

Brienne’s mouth dropped open into a wide “O” of surprise. “Why? When?”

“I was different after the second time in Winterfell,” Jaime admitted. “Realizing what I lost with you and Kit...it forced me to confront everything that led me to that point and I couldn’t be what Cersei wanted anymore once I was back. Eventually, she ran off with Osmund Kettleback and I got custody of the kids. I’ve tried to reach out to her, but she’s virtually gone. I’ve heard of her appearing on the arm of some billionaire or another at society events but she’s never contacted us and the children gave up on her years ago.

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said, relieved to know she might never see Cersei again. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Good riddance works.”

“Oh.” Brienne was surprised by his vehemence.

Jaime looked at her, and stepped closer, pulling one of her hands into his. “I know I have no right to ask it of you, but I can’t have you not understand. I didn’t bring you back to my room for a drunk romp, I brought you back because I’ve wanted you for so long. And I thought you understood my intentions until I woke up and you were gone. I’ve missed you all this time. I just need you to understand and I want to know what it will take. If I have to climb the Eyrie barehand, backpack the furthest edge of the True North, walk the Wall coast-to-coast, I will. Let me prove  to you how serious I am.”

Brienne swallowed. She rarely thought of it these days, but every time she turned to those days in Winterfell, she felt herself sink under it’s emotional weight. But this man before he wasn’t him and that had to be worth exploring at the very least. So very softly, she whispered, “Okay.” She squeezed the hand that held hers right back.

Jaime grinned and tugged her closer to him, asking her a question that went in one ear and out the other.

She searched his face, dazed to be this close. “What did you say?”

Jaime chuckled, “Don’t play coy with me, wench. How about it? One dance. I’ll go easy on you tonight but tomorrow I’m turning up the Lannister charm.”

Brienne sputtered. Her mouth opening and closing in a pantomime of a beached fish.

Jaime waved a hand, “Okay, got it. So no Lannister charm tomorrow. Monday then. So how about it. One ‘no-stakes’ dance?”

“I suppose there’s no harm in that,” she agreed.

“Of course there isn’t,” Jaime beamed, but his face wavered, seeming to jump back and forth with the earnest and passionate soft underbelly he had exposed to her and the charismatic front he was choosing to fall back on in the hopes it would make her more comfortable, “but there’s no harm in dancing all night with me if you feel so inclined. With the exception of our daughter, Myrcella, and Tommen, if Ree Stark ever lets him go, my dance card is reserved exclusively for you.”

Brienne blushed. “One dance,” she reiterated, “and then we’ll see where we go from there.”  

Jaime’s face lit up and she remembered how good it had actually felt to fall in love with him in the ruins of the Stark’s ancient castle. Perhaps it could be easier now. He held up their hands, fixing their hold so that her hand was being held delicately in it like a princess’. He leaned forward and kissed it. “I can work with that.”

[bloggerblagger]

81) To my old, impressionable friends who are falling for Corbynonsense.

Remember Barbara Follett? Blair babe and MP. Wife of seriously wedged-up  best selling author Ken Follett. She was queen of the champagne socialists.

I mention her because champagne socialist seems an outdated term to me these days. As outdated as Blair Babes. Or Blair anything come to that. To begin with,  it’s perfectly respectable to pitch up at a party with  a lesser bubbly  these days - champagne even seems a tad vulgar, a bit footballer. And with the sharp  leftward swerve of Corby’s Labour Party, well,  ‘socialist’ hardly seems to cover it. That’s why, in a recent Facebook spat I had with some  old advertising pals who have decided that Jezza is the new messiah, I called them Prosecco Marxists.

One of them objected. Not to the Marxist bit. He told me he was strictly teetotal these days. So I tried a bit harder, and always liking a bit of alliteration I offered up Perrier Pol Pottist. Then I thought a bit more and came up with Eau Chi Minnist. All a bit seventies I agree, but that seems to fit in quite well with Jezza’s policies.

For those still on the booze, how about Cava Commie? Or if you really are a footballer you could make that Cristal Commie?

Raw nerves touched.

Anyway, my central and not terribly well received  point was that there was something faintly ridiculous about people who had spent their lives in the engine room of capitalism, and living very comfortably as a result, deciding that the Islington Hugo Chavez was the answer to their prayers. When I suggested that whatever the problem, Jezza was most emphatically not the answer, and that,  should he ever actually manage to fly the Red Flag outside no.10, they would  be the first ones dispatched to the gulag, I received back some impassioned replies.

One said, “….you would rather vote for a morally & fiscally bankrupt bunch of murderous bastards?  Seriously? Purely on the basis of ‘what might be’? Crikey. I’m sorry but I’m genuinely surprised by that. It’s an interesting inversion of the ‘it was all better in the old days’ thinking that led to your generation voting overwhelmingly to Leave. Now the same generation is voting AGAINST a return to the past. Jesus. Make your minds up!! (I appreciate you’re a remainer but you are unusual in your generation) And try looking forward at the world you’d like to create rather than running from one you fear will be recreated.

Come on Richard, where’s that youthful idealism? Where’s the belief we can make the world a better place? A fairer, more just, more equal one? To want that isn’t to want a return to the 70s, it’s just to want a world in which human beings are more important than lining your own pockets. A world with some principles, some humanity, some hope. A world in which the prevailing orthodoxy isn’t that the free market is the answer to all ills.”

Selfish? Moi?

As this particular correspondent admitted to being 54 himself, I thought the ‘my generation’ bit was a bit rich. And as for the whereabouts of ‘my youthful idealism’, well, pretty obviously you’ll find that in the locked and barred cupboard of my youth along with the Beatle jacket and the “Make Love Not War’ badge and the flower that I never wore in my hair even when I had some.

Actually, I wouldn’t rather vote for a morally and fiscally bankrupt bunch of murderous bastards. Although I probably would work on their advertising business if I got the chance. I’d draw the line at Golden Dawn and ISIS but I’d sell my soul for pretty much anything in between as I am pretty sure most advertising people would; very possibly including my friend who wants the world where human beings are more important than lining your own pockets. ( I really objected to that; when I worked in advertising, it wasn’t just about the money. It was also the company pension, the six week hols, the trips to Cannes, the business class plane tickets….)

It is not that I am pro Tory, at least not pro this lot. The fact that the only one of the present bunch that I have any time for is Spreadsheet Phil  clearly underlines my total disillusionment with the Conservatives. It is just that I genuinely believe that Jezza and Johnny Mac and Big Di  represent an existential  danger. To the country. To  the public services. To the poor and needy. And, lastly, to me.

Actually, this is one of those cases where the last shall be first. Because what I really mean to say is, not, lastly, to me, but firstly to me.

My heartlessness explained.

If I have one central guiding precept by which I make sense of the world, it is this: self interest rules. At the epicentre of my world is me, as it must  be because it is through my eyes that I see it, and through my mind that I make sense of it, and when I cease to exist, for me the world will do likewise.

Similarly the epicentre of your world is you, and the epicentre of anybody else’s world is their's and their's alone. I concede that if there were a God we would all be equal but only in that God’s eyes. It is an immutable law of life;  me and mine first, you and yours second, them and their's last. (Me and mine rather than just me, because I see our children are an extension of ourselves, our immortality.)

It is this order of value of  which explains why, when tens of thousands  of people die in Syria it rates less British column inches than when 129 people die in an attack on a nightclub in Paris, and why that in turn gets less coverage in this country  than when one soldier is beheaded in Greenwich. It is that which is closest to us which always gets our attention first.

It’s all me, me, me. Even for you.

However I also realise that for every other person it is their self interest that rules and for us all to coexist  we each have to allow for that.

As you may know, I am not the first to have happened upon this revelation. Moses may have got there first. The Ten Commandments, it seems to me, are  not so much a matter of morality as a matter of  self preservation.

Thou does not kill because thou would much prefer not to  be killed. Thou honours  thy mother and father in the hope that thine own little dears won’t ship thou off to the nearest nursing home.  

This, I would say, is enlightened self interest. It mean giving careful thought to what my medium and long term interest might be,and in doing that,  sometimes sacrificing my short term  interest as a result. I might have an almost irresistible urge to jump over the garden fence and nick next door’s ox,  but, unless I want to start the next war of the oxen, I had better keep a lid on it. Peace between neighbours is more in my medium and long term self interest  than the brief pleasure of slurping down a  nice bowl of oxtail soup.

A tiny cog in the great machine of commerce.

Thinking in terms of self-interest, even enlightened self interest, might not give one the lofty views  of others that one gets from  believing one is occupying the moral high ground.  But it just makes more sense to me.  Amongst other benefits, it  allows me to have worked and profited from a career in advertising, without the queasy feeling - most of the time - that I was doing something fundamentally wrong. (Which is how I am sure  Jezza would see it.)

Being in advertising often involves attempting to persuade people to part with money they often have to borrow, to pay for things they often don’t need, and  which they wouldn’t otherwise want. If ‘belief that we can make the world a better place’ is what is driving you it is hard to see how that squares with a life spent  working in advertising. (Although, if that were your point of view, you  could, if pushed, just about, make an  argument that advertising increases demand and  that is to the general economic good.  But somehow I think I would find that more of a comfort than you would.)

So what would Jezza do for me?

I would hazard a guess  that as soon as he was elected the pound would fall through the floor, the credit agencies would slash our credit rating, the interest on government’s borrowings would rise inexorably, inflation would soar, and interest rates would have to follow.

The property market - already falling in London - would fall further and faster, leaving some owners (grown used to the low interest rates of the last years)  in negative equity  and no longer able to afford their increased mortgage payments that would follow interest rate rises. Overseas investors would be withdrawing their money before you could say  Viva La Revolucion.

Unfazed by any of the aforementioned, Jezza and his dedicated disciples would whack up income taxes and inheritance tax and corporate taxes and lots of companies would up sticks and bugger off to Ireland or somewhere. If corporation tax rose by the 40% (from 19% to 26%) promised in the Labour manifesto, what would be the consequences of the resultant hole in profits? Either, less money for investment in plant or people or R and D, and less for dividends on shares - which means pension funds suffer - or cost cutting, meaning possible loss of jobs, or a combination of all of the above.

So far, so bad

And then we come to the wealth tax that John McDonnell has always been a proponent of but which was conveniently downplayed during the election. Any sort of wealth tax - and John McDonnell has previously proposed one  on the wealthiest 10% - would obviously be heavily biased towards London and the South East. They mentioned a Land Tax  in the manifesto but we have no idea of the details.

So, what I see is a doctrinaire Marxist-ish Labour government steadfastly hanging on to its outmoded ideas while the economy tips into serious decline, with the payment of lots of extra taxes being requested of me while the value of my house, pension and other assets falls precipitously.

No, Jezza wouldn’t be  too good for my short term self interest. And neither would he be good  for my medium and long term self interest - my enlightened self interest - as I don’t see how his policies  would ultimately benefit anyone else either. In the words of the unfashionable Tony Blair earlier this week, they would leave the country ‘flat on its back’, 

And it gets worse.

Then there is Jezza’s position on the EU, which is the polar opposite of mine as I am a staunch, unrepentant Remoaner. Whatever he claims to think, however much he tries to face both ways, it is absolutely obvious from his lukewarm campaigning during the referendum - so inferior to his full-blooded performance during the election - that he is a Brexiteer. His parliamentary voting record on every matter from 1975 onwards has been steadfastly anti-EU. Many of his and McDonnell’s cherished plans for state intervention in the economy, would, it is believed, run foul of EU competition laws.

And I have another fundamental problem with him: his supposed integrity and authenticity. Far from believing in it, I think he is, in a sense, the most duplicitous of politicians. I think he could teach even Boris a thing or two. For whereas we know brazen Boris is completely two faced, he at least makes no real effort to disguise the fact, whereas Jezza unashamedly trades on his entirely fictitious image of being a straight-talking anti-politician.

His refuses to be honest about his positions on the EU,  on nuclear weapons, and  on the monarchy, none of which he believes in. As it happens I agree with him on the Royals and I am half in sympathy on the Trident issue, but he thinks these views might be electorally damaging so he prevaricates and obfuscates like any other politician does.

Last - for the moment - but not least for the enlightened self-interest of a Jew like me, there is his half-arsed, unconvincing, lack of action on  anti-Semitism in  the Labour party  despite his proclaimed determination to root it out. (You might have misgivings about the Sun as a source of reference but this time they were bang on : https://www.thesun.co.uk/news/1558035/jeremy-corbyn-faces-backlash-for-nominating-shami-chakrabarti-for-peerage-after-she-led-partys-anti-semitism-investigation/ )

Oh Jeremy Cor-byn (as his adoring fans like to sing) -  whatever happened to all that  refreshing honesty?

And yet…

What I do accept is that the NHS and social services need a drastic rethink and will need more money. Likewise schools, and very probably the police and fire and prison services too. I don’t see how councils can fix the roads and sweep the streets and empty the bins and do all the other things they have to do if government subsidies are constantly being cut. And I can’t help feeling university tuition fees of nine grand a year are  way too high, and that charging interest of 6.1% on  the loans for them  is outrageous.

Just as worrying,  the constant whittling away of legal aid is profoundly wrong. It makes our legal system fundamentally unjust.

Perhaps most important of all, we need a radical and imaginative building programme that gives young people a chance to buy a home of their own. If bits of the green belt have to go, if the toes of the constituents of Tory MPs have to be trodden on, then so be it.

Buying a house is the route by which - certainly since the war - have-nots in this country have become haves. That’s how I, once a have-not, became a have and if ‘me and mine’ and the rest of the haves are not to become an ever shrinking minority, and thus politically marginalised and vulnerable, then we need a constant stream of new blood.

(Young people who yearn to own a home of their own please note: Helping people to buy houses  will never be a priority for Jezza and Co. They do not stand for an aspiring, burgeoning, upwardly mobile middle class.  

If  not publicly opposed to the ownership of property, which, ideologically,  at bottom,  they surely are, then you can be certain that their housing policy is, and will continue to be,  focussed on increasing social housing and not on private ownership.)

Money, money, money - my money.

How is all of that to be paid for? One way or another by higher taxation I reluctantly suppose. (And by a reduction to my perks - the pension triple lock and my winter fuel allowance will have to go of course, although Jezza wouldn’t agree because, for the far left, the holy cow of universal benefits must never be slain, no matter how much sense it makes. )  

As I believe it to be in my medium and long term self interest - my enlightened self interest - I am prepared to settle the bigger claims that will be made of me.

I don’t say I am enthusiastic about paying more tax - never yet met the person who pays more tax than she or he has to - but I regard tax as a sort of protection money. It is what I have to pay to keep the ravening hordes from my door and demanding everything.

It’s become clear to me that the heavies are now putting the squeeze on me so I’d better slip them a bit more or face the unpleasant consequences. Some call this the price we pay for a civilised society. Put it whichever way you like, it adds up to the same thing.

Thou can be holier than me.

What I refuse to do is pretend that what impels me is anything other than what is good for me and mine. I do object to those who insist on claiming the moral high ground, but more than that, I laugh at them. I don’t doubt their sincerity but I think they are as self-interested as I am. It’s just that they insist on looking through the wrong end of the telescope.

Personal reward is everything. Sometimes materially. Sometimes, for want of a better word, spiritually. (Or as I, who make no claim to any kind of spirituality, prefer to think of it, sometimes it is the reward of making yourself - your self - feel better.) You don’t give money to a beggar because it makes you feel worse, or tend a sick friend, or rescue a mangy dog. Virtue is it’s own reward, as the saying goes. Even the idea of empathy is rooted in self-interest. It means to put oneself - one’s self - in another’s place.

For me, this is the only way to square the circle: of being competitive, of wanting to do well - in an egg and spoon  race or in  a career - which inevitably means judging yourself by the yardstick of others’ relative lack of success, and yet squaring that with  the innate sense of fairness and justice which we all feel almost as soon as we can speak - “it’s not fair, Mummy!” Both positions, it seems to me, are undeniably essential to the human condition.

So to the Mōet Tendancy, I say this. Call me a selfish bastard if you want. I cheerfully plead guilty. And so are you.

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