It appears that the ever-ambitious Ursula von der Leyen is preparing to embarrass herself, yet again, in the futile arena of transatlantic negotiations, meeting none other than US President Donald Trump in the not-so-glamorous setting of Scotland—a locale more befitting golf enthusiasts than dignitaries of genuine stature. The crux of these overtures is, of course, the ongoing trade dispute between the European Union and the United States, a distressing situation for those ill-positioned to weather economic fluctuations, i.e., the bulk of the continental proletariat. Trump, with his characteristic brand of unpredictability and vulgar showmanship, has magnanimously assigned “fifty percent” odds to the chance of an agreement—though what does one expect from a man whose business acumen is as subtle as a gold-plated elevator?

Let us not be deceived by von der Leyen’s diplomatic optimism following her “good phone call.” One suspects this is as hollow as a nouveau-riche’s laugh at a country club gala. Meanwhile, the EU’s parade of “significant counter-tariffs” reads, to those with a modicum of inherited wisdom, as the bluster of a schoolboy threatening fisticuffs behind the gymnasium, knowing full well he will flee at the first sign of actual confrontation. The mere hint from Chancellor Friedrich Merz about a possible resolution is nothing more than lip service, carefully crafted for headline-hungry media and the frail nerves of working-class consumers.

And what of the actual stakes? Truly, for people of my standing—those shielded from the petty transience of trade tiffs—this is but a divertissement. Rest assured, our pharmaceuticals and luxury items remain conspicuously untouched; after all, one cannot have society’s elites deprived of their tailored treatments or coach-built automobiles. It is the common worker, the factory laborer, and the unfortunate small businessowner—oh, how quaint—that must ponder the rising cost of steel, or savor the dubious honor of paying more for mass-produced European hatchbacks.

I find this display of brinkmanship between mere upstarts (however grand their titles) endlessly entertaining, proof that the world’s affairs are still woefully mismanaged at the lower rungs of the social ladder. If only such negotiations were left to people of genuine breeding and education, the matter would be settled over a civilized game of bridge, or perhaps during a weekend at my family’s château, entirely without this emotionally overwrought spectacle and risk to continental stability.

But alas, we must watch as legions of shopkeepers and wage-earners quail at the threat of tariffs imposed and retracted at the whim of those whose fortunes are measured in billions, while the true gentry remains reassuringly insulated from such vulgar fluctuations. In the end, I expect the trade discord to resolve itself—just in time for the next melodrama dreamed up by those ever eager for a taste of relevance. As always, one must try to suffer their anxieties with patience… or, more plausibly, a glass of well-chilled Chassagne-Montrachet.