It turns out that we already have a quarter of a century without the “princess of the people & rdquor; and I without knowing. I have felt ashamed when the televisions and the radios and the paper press have reminded me. I have made my wife believe that she was aware of it.
– Twenty-five years without Diana of Wales! I exclaimed, letting myself fall on the sofa with a defeated expression.
-What do you say?
–That twenty-five years without Lady Di. I don’t know how we survived his loss.
-Have you taken the medicine? -he just asked.
Maybe it turns out that people don’t give a damn about this anniversary. But if so, why has it been everywhere? I’m a mess, frankly, I don’t know if I should be moved or not. I called my brother on the phone.
– How are you, Richard? -say.
-Okay here, and you?
-Well, the truth, a little impressed.
-Why?
-Why would it be? Because of the people’s princess.
-Which princess, which town? she asks.
Diana of Wales, man!
-What happened to it?
-That 25 years have passed since his death.
My brother remains silent, then calls his wife and whispers something to her about me. I hang up, of course, and go to the bar, where the bartender asks if I’m okay.
-And you? I tell him.
-I do. Why?
After giving up reminding him about the village princess, I went to the farthest table with my gin and tonic trying to imagine the closing meeting of a newscast in which someone announces that it is the anniversary of the death of Lady Di.
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-Well, you have to take it out at the head -says the director (or the director, fucking generic) very seriously.
And so, little by little, we select the informative material that really concerns us.
