According to the lush mercurial grapevine upon which Oscar Wilde lived and breathed a King was about to be born in the Little Town of Bethlehem. A King whose grandeur would illuminate the world for all the ages to come. Oscar, desperately fashionable as ever, determined to be there at the birth, so that he might enjoy something of the warmth of that grand glow even if its rays might be thought by some to be second hand. No matter, thought Oscar in his singular fashion, it would remain the heat of the son. How ironic was it then that he arrived in Jerusalem just as the Holy Lands current owners, The Romans, had decided to enforce a census of all who lived there. So they might properly tax all to the point of distraction. Which meant The Great and The Good and The Not So Great and The Not So Good had gathered together in order to register for these tax burdens to weigh all down further. This also meant that every major and minor town was filled to capacity and a good room in which to rest a weary head was not to be had for love nor money (two things Oscar adored more than anything else) Worse still no one in town had heard anything about this rumored New King, everything was Roman This and Roman That, no one had time for any parochial nonsense. It was often the way with these unfashionable little back water towns, the locals were often the last to know about the noteworthy social events taking place in their area. Oscar, being Oscar, then decided to visit the notorious Herod Family whom he had heard whispers about on that same wisteria laden grapevine. He had heard they knew how to throw a party. Oscar rode off into that Bethlehem night resigned to the fact he would not make it to this New Kings Birth Day but he felt somehow sure this New King would one day turn up for one of his.