A few nights ago, my missus and I were walking along Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, minding our own business while trying not to think about Donald Trump — or Ted Cruz, or Hillary Clinton, or Bernie Sanders.
Presently we passed the Old Post Office Building, a venerable pile dating to 1899. It looks a bit like Big Ben atop a ten-storey Romanesque atrium. There in front was a billboard the size of Montana proclaiming ‘TRUMP’. It is to be — shudder — a hotel.
Clutching my beloved’s arm, I gasped: ‘A drink — quickly. For the love of God, a drink.’
She rushed us to the restaurant, where a martini revived my colour and vital functions. But my depression remained. Through the fog of woe I remembered years ago his purchase of another venerable American pile, New York’s Plaza hotel. He remarked then: ‘The Plaza is a trophy. I only buy trophies.’
What finer trophy than the White House, just a few blocks up Pennsylvania Avenue from the Old Post Office? Then it dawned: perhaps all along his quest has been about real estate.
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