black, victorian

I chose to make the most of the slipped era, the long straightening silence between us formed at distance and indices at separate points of the arcade. Which is understandable of course, in your minor perfection in that one corner of the hall lined with it's patterned floortiles and bicycles. And I should have been embarrassed in that discomfort, but it has become so regular. An unending series of brief non encounters and mistimed glances. It is the same when I walk past the house on Madras street, sitting ungainly on its corner. Unprepossessing and painted brightly like Victorian houses were. I mean this was always the aspect denied by such house owners, how vile the aesthetics of that age were. Brocaded in chintz and emancipated by a room impossible to move in; crystal glass set, walnut side table dressed in lace cover, patterned carpet, patterned wallpaper and patterned clothing. And of course, I have grown to despise so much. And I had nothing but the best intentions, and you had your best lace on as you do. Queen Victoria in mourning.

The Queen turned mourning into the chief concern of her existence the next several years. The Prince's rooms in their residences were maintained exactly as he had them when he was alive. Her servants were instructed to bring hot water into his dressing room every day as they had formerly done for his morning shave. She had statues made of him, displayed mementos of his around the royal palaces, and she spent most of her time secluded in Windsor Castle or in Balmoral up in Scotland, where she had formerly spent so many happy times with her husband.