Dear Gayorg,
Yes, I know you don’t spell your name like that- it’s George without the ‘e’- but what a name for a Captain with 7 children, in need of a new wife!
I wanted to tell you how glad I am you let the cameras follow your life in Vienna; those aren’t the kind of memories you want buggered up by Alzheimers.
If a Blockbuster were burning to the ground in a cloud of synthetic carpeting and bubbling black jelly worms yours is the one reel of celluloid that the fluids of the last shower on earth should be sacrificed for.
Two hours and fifty-four minutes of saturated emotion and the sort of singing the police get called in to stop: your whole story makes my hills come alive.
I think you and the ex did a first-rate job with the children. The whistle business is OTT, granted, but they’re a real set. I kind of suspect Liezl is a bit older than 16 but no matter- she’s dreamy. And little Gretl- well, I could just bake her up in the oven and eat her with condiments.
Now, I can see why you were courting your Baroness. She’s a bit slutty and husky and when you chuck a wad of cash and a 20-a-day Gitanes habit into the mix she’s got a lot going for her.
But she only plays the poxy harmonica, Gayorg, and she doesn’t mind a bit of Nazi either, which isn’t really up your straza.
What I can’t understand is how long it took for you to get Maria, with her tomboy hairdo-clutching and annunciation of every word to within an inch of its life.
She makes curtain playclothes, she yodels, she does indoor theatre; there aren’t many women out there bringing all that under one roof of feisty tenderness, make no mistake.
You could have shaved a good hour off the footage if you’d just taken her straight into the ballroom on interview day and shown her why she didn’t want to marry God. (Should any woman go from nun to wife without discovering their genitalia? Or are there some scenes on the cutting room floor?)
But thank Mozart you didn’t.
The way you look at her when she brings music back into the house. The moment she leaves because she wants to save you from loving her. They make me take a sharp intake of breath and put down my sewing every time.
She was slowly opening your heart, like the world’s strongest man trying to prize open heavy steal doors.
You validate her, you complete her, she is soaked in your suave demeanour. And all while taking some evening air in your well-tended garden. I tell you, this is what Jude Law’s nanny really had in mind.
So thank you, Gayorg.
Your manly restraint, your patriotic principles, your knee-high boots, have set the standard.
Every rainstorm, every lonely goatherd, every piano scale of my life is heavy with do-re-me and you and your reality show are the reason why.
Sincerely,
mumbo
mumbojumbo 