By now, I trust you’ve all watched the riveting finale of Downton Abbey, Season 4.

If not, perhaps you should take more leisure time. And also, servants. Because trust me: It was a mother lode of high monarchist drama! Waltzes with the Prince of Wales. A high-class London burglary, replete with clever jokes about socks. A vague hint of emotional depth from Mary. And a much anticipated close up of Mr. Carson’s bare feet.

About a year ago, a friend suggested I audition to be Donald Duck in Disneyland. He said it calmly at first, but when I expressed reluctance he adopted a more insistent tone. “You’re a five-foot-tall duck. Your name is Donald. What the hell else are you going to do?”

“We need five words from you,” the acquisitions orangutan said.

Webley gnashed his teeth. “Does it have to be five?”

“Five.”

“Exactly five?”

“Five exactly.”

“I’ve got some great stuff in the one-hundred-word range.”

“Not concise enough,” the orangutan said.

High Master Seamus was not a power-hungry sociopath, as agreed upon by his sizeable cult.

See him!

A severe, potbellied figure, never without a djellaba and skullcap, Seamus was not mocked. The superman was a gravity well of ego, as only the self-assured can be, as to shout the loudest, and condemn the sharpest, and inspire submission by brow configuration alone. For Seamus, these things constituted truth, without question. When he was jailed, it only proved his holiness.

It was Wednesday when her name and face popped up on Tinder.

I thought, that’s a cute coincidence, and swiped right.

It’s a Match!

You and Wednesday Addams have liked each other.