This is a consideration of Margaret Thatcher as a reptilian character, ink with watercolour tint. It is perhaps unfair. It exploits the way that Thatcher is seen as unfeeling and inhuman, a steeled machine that slept five hours a night and didn't flinch when her bathroom was bombed. It exploits the perception of her as a cold creature, emptied of a soul, who sacked the North, Scotland, and Wales, let Irishmen die, and wrecked everyone except "Our People". But this ability to be an extremist, to be clear-headed to the point of cruelty, all the while feeling that one is a bearer of painful virtue, has nothing to do with monsters. It is a truly human trait.
She wore that trait with glee, and her ability to wear things was evident, the aura that gave her allure. She wore her hair and her clothes with sterness and perfection that must have made her feel like she had mastered her appearance. It was chilling and self-confident, its effect on us coming from watching her eyes tell us that she was wallowing with joy in the mastery she had made of things. Equally, she revelled in her extremism. The sanctimony of the Sermon on the Mound, the obstinacy of her dealing with miners: these were her powerful aesthetic. There is a great humanity in wearing a trait or dressing in a stark opinion.
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