About a week ago, it was like a switch flipped in Charlie and he decided he should really milk the terrible twos for all they’re worth. I compare it to being a personal assistant for a really difficult celebrity and you can’t quit: outrageous and impossible demands, totally self-consumed, taste that leans to the slightly tacky, extreme pickiness about food, agreeing to sleep in a certain bed only if it is just so, obsession with clothes, you tell them how great they are, people stop on the street to gawk and compliment but may be met with a scowl or a smack, selfishness. And you are left with no time for yourself, are totally drained, and get paid nothing. At last with a celeb you might get some haute castoffs or something. Charlie has no delicately used Marchesa to give me.