In a move that has sent tremors through the civilised world, Donald Trump, the man with the hair of a startled badger and the soul of a timeshare salesman, has ordered urgent repairs to the Washington Reflecting Pool. Yes, that shimmering monument to democratic ambitions and occasional pigeon drownings. But here’s the kicker: British heritage experts, those tweed-clad guardians of crumbling abbeys and damp stately homes, have bravely waded in with unsolicited counsel. One can almost hear the collective groan from across the Atlantic.
The pool, a 2,029-foot-long rectangular puddle that has soaked up more political hubris than a Swiss bank vault, is reportedly cracked and leaking. Trump, never one to miss an opportunity for a photo op involving water features, declared the repairs ‘the greatest, most beautiful fix ever.’ Naturally. His vision? Probably gold-plated tiles and a plaque bearing his name in 72-point font. The experts from the UK, presumably having just finished a cucumber sandwich and a lecture on drystone walling, suggested lime mortar and traditional English pointing. Because nothing says ‘bipartisan unity’ like a bit of Portland stone.
But let’s pause, dear reader, to savour the sheer absurdity. Here we have a man who wants to build a wall (and make Mexico pay for it) now fixing a pool that reflects the very nation he divides. The irony could fill a thousand gin-soaked columns. Meanwhile, the British advisors, possibly the same luminaries who thought Brexit was a jolly good idea, are offering technical assistance on a structure that will soon reflect the face of a man who doesn’t recognise reflection at all.
I picture the experts arriving at the Reflecting Pool, armed with theodolites and a copy of ‘Saving St Pancras: A Practical Guide.’ They mutter about the ‘application of a suitable hydraulic lime mortar, mixed with finely graded aggregate, ensuring proper set under Washington’s humid climate.’ Trump demands it be done in a week, with cherry-pickers and his sons overseeing. The pool will soon be filled with Evian from a golden hose.
This story, stripped of its gaudy particulars, is a microcosm of our times. A leader obsessed with shiny things seeks polish from a nation that once polished its empire with the blood of others. And the experts? They’ll offer advice, drink the gin, and return to their tea-warmed offices, leaving behind a monument to folly. The pool will be fixed, sure. But the cracks in the republic? Those will remain, carrying on the farce until the next distraction emerges.
So raise a glass, not of lime mortar, but of something stronger. The reflecting pool is being repaired. And the world, as always, is looking straight into the abyss.
(Barnaby ‘Biff’ Thistlethwaite, drowning his sorrows in a Soho gin joint and sharpening his quill.)