Saw this beautiful pic proffered by Harvey Sklar. An arch in a perfect garden.

Gorgeous, elegant, and I’m not even talking about Harvey’s shirt.

The dilettante sloth is overwhelmingly inclined toward the Victorian ideal of gardens lost to rack and ruin, from decades ago. Recreating these Swinburnian concoctions takes enormous effort. Please appreciate our own meticulously designed backyard arch.

Three architects and fifteen Mexicans. Just saying.

Then there’s our gazebo. It takes an army of engineers to hold it, like the Tower of Pisa, at precisely this tipping point. Not to mention what it costs to hire lookalikes of Vivian Leigh, Jane Seymour, and lately, sad to say, even Aussies like Cate Blanchette to moon around it and pretend to be Jane Austen characters.

It’ll collapse at any second, like the British Empire if the Tories ever win, except — Oops.

Yeah. The serfs who cut the grass missed their last turn. They were out machine gunning Tory signs. But perhaps you can still see the beauty of the dead straw around our giant phallic ivy monument to Oxbridge and Yalevard.

Life is, basically, about switches that can be applied to Eton bottoms, n’est-ce pas?

A clearer view of the monument.

Even Harrow quivers in love of the Queen…

Unless it’s about something higher instead.

God’s in his heaven, and we are content here in our polyglot paradise.

Or even higher than that.

All’s right with the world.

Everything falls apart. But some of us know better than entropy.