I think there's something wrong with me. I'm not - seriously - gossip enabled. Especially so early in the teshuvah year, but kind of anyway anyway, I don't really care. Don't get me wrong - I'm as up as the next person for a moment's conjecture about why Fred and Freda are breaking up, but I have an acute awareness that the damage my talking does, and it doesn't last long because it feels kinda tacky.
The other element is, that I don't really care. I don't care Which Royal, or Which Premier Footballer, or Which Anyone, and I rarely read tabloid newspapers now, and I never read OK! and HELLO! and other weeklies with exclamation marks at the end.
This is partly brought on by this week's Diana/What The Butler Saw story, and partly because a copy of the Sun found it's way into my home, and I discovered that someone I was at college with is a senior journalist there. All through University, on the student newspaper - Guardian newspaper of the year, that year, natch - all us right-thinking, left-leaning liberal types had to keep him in check, and pretend we didn't know him when he - genuinely - chose to wear a pork pie hat. This was before irony was mainstream, too.
I know all this crap is the oil the media wheel turns to, but I don't care. I don't want to hear often pointless conjecture, and I don't think the price you pay for celebrity/royalty is a bunch of overweight men in overcoats stalking your every move. Like when I went to Famous Neighbours Engagement party, and there were photographers doorstepping us on the way out, I knew they hadn't heard that a girl in Kilburn had lost a lot of weight and wouldn't it be a great story. And I was relieved.
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