another Mrs. McCartney - sigh

It's all right, my friends, really it is. It's 8 a.m. on a brisk Sunday morning, and I've just read in the "Star" that my beloved Paul, Sir P. McCartney, is going to marry his Nancy TODAY. We can all rejoice that she seems a lot nicer than the last one, though I do confess, I find her CLINGY. In every picture, she's stuck to his side or draped all over him; when he was being honoured in Washington, she was seated in the row behind, and though he was sitting between the Obamas, who might perhaps have had interesting things to say, she kept bending forward over his chair to engage him in chat. However, I think he likes that kind of thing. She's very pretty and low-key, she has tons of money, she has a job in her father's company, sort of, I gather.

Yes, this is the third time he's marrying someone other than me. All my friends will turn to me with sorrowful, sympathetic eyes. And once more, I have to say - all I need is love. Not more; not marriage. I don't want to know the real Paul McCartney, thank you very much, his morning breath and his boxes of hair dye. I'm pretty sure I'd like him if we met; just yesterday, I read that he never misses his daughter Stella's fashion shows in Paris. He is a steadfast father and a musician non pareil, and he has engaged this Toronto writer in a sweet romantic fantasy since she was 13 years old. Which, incidentally, is providing great material for her next book. Which I hope, one day, he'll read.

May this generous man and musician be granted great joy and much creativity. May his happiness translate into many more songs for us. If she'll just leave him alone long enough to get to work.

Meow.

Speaking of uncovering the real man: A new book has been published about Obama, puncturing

that particular rose-coloured myth, exposing the many arrogant, greenhorn mistakes he made the minute he arrived in the White House. He wasn't ready for the Presidency, says the writer, he ignored key advisors, he maltreated his female staff who were relegated to the sidelines - it goes on and on. You see? Sometimes the myth, sadly, is so very much better that the real thing. Not always, luckily; the reality of Nelson Mandela is as good as the myth, if not better. But that's rare.

There is one thing about the Paul story, though, that gave me a twinge. One of my longterm fantasies - just there, way down, at the back of the brain - has been to own - even, perhaps, to be given - a vintage diamond ring. I have no idea where that came from, I'm not a diamond kind of person, but there's something so beautiful and unique about the settings and the way they're cut, and of course, there's no worry about provenance since the stones were mined so long ago. When I read that Paul has given Nancy a vintage diamond ring, I thought, of course he did. He knows.

I hope she appreciates it, and him.

I hope she acquires a nice absorbing hobby that keeps her busy.

Meow.

P.S. I just Googled the story and saw the actual ring. It's just a big honking diamond, quite ugly. One day, I'm going to find the ring I want, Victorian I think, discreet, delicate, and I'm going to buy it and become engaged to myself. Until death do me part.