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Dearest Gentle Reader,
It being a Sunday, one might reasonably expect the affairs of the world to observe a polite sabbath. One would, as ever, be entirely mistaken. This Author sets down her quill only long enough to refill her cup – the third already, and the morning barely half-spent – before the day’s dispatches demand her full and frankly incredulous attention.
Let us address first the matter of Persia, where diplomacy has once again performed its favourite trick of vanishing entirely, like a conjurer’s rabbit but considerably less entertaining. Talks between the American Colonies and Persia, held in Pakistan of all places, collapsed in the small hours of this very Sunday without so much as a handshake for the history books. Lord Streeting, our Health Secretary – one notes he is commenting on wars rather than waiting lists, but perhaps the two are not so different – described the outcome as “disappointing”, which is the diplomatic equivalent of calling a shipwreck “a spot of bother.” He did, bless him, urge us to judge Lord Trump on his actions rather than his words, which this Author considers an admirably brave position given that Lord Trump’s words last week included a threat that “a whole civilisation will die tonight.” Merely his manner of speaking, apparently. How reassuring.
Meanwhile, in the Capital, the Metropolitan Constabulary has had what one can only describe as a very productive Saturday. More than five hundred persons were arrested in the vicinity of Trafalgar Square at a demonstration in support of the proscribed group Palestine Action – those arrested ranging in age, the Constabulary helpfully informs us, from eighteen to eighty-seven. Eighty-seven! This Author is frankly in awe of the octogenarian commitment to civil disobedience. Among those detained was the founding member of a notable musical ensemble, attending in full knowledge of the risk. The ban in question was itself ruled unlawful in February, yet remains in force pending appeal – a legal situation so gloriously tangled that even the wigs at the bar must be blushing. The Constabulary warned beforehand that consequences would follow. Reader, consequences followed.
This Author must turn now to a matter that admits of no wit whatsoever. A young woman of nineteen years was killed in a dog attack at a house in the Essex village of Leaden Roding on Friday evening. She was found by officers with serious injuries and pronounced dead at the scene despite the best efforts of the emergency services. A man of thirty-seven has been arrested on suspicion of being in charge of a dog dangerously out of control causing injury resulting in death. The dog has been seized. There is nothing more to say, save that this Author’s thoughts are entirely with those who loved her.
To Aintree for something considerably more cheering. I Am Maximus – a name that practically demands a fanfare – has won the Grand National for the second time, becoming the first horse since Red Rum in 1977 to reclaim the race in non-consecutive years. His trainer, the formidable Irishman Willie Mullins, has now won the race in three consecutive years, a feat last achieved by Vincent O’Brien between 1953 and 1955. The horse carried a top weight of 11 stone 12 pounds to victory – the first top weight to win since Red Rum in 1974. Jockey Paul Townend declared himself “privileged,” which under the circumstances is perhaps the understatement of the century. This Author raises her third cup of tea in salute.
And finally, a dispatch of unusual majesty: the golden eagle is to return to English skies, backed by one million pounds of government money. Britain’s second-largest bird of prey was hunted to extinction in England during the nineteenth century – a fact that says rather a great deal about the nineteenth century. Lady Reynolds, the Environment Secretary, speaks of the eagle’s two-metre wingspan and its status as a keystone species. Farming communities have, one understands, raised concerns about lambs. The eagle can spot a rabbit moving from three miles hence and dives at two hundred miles per hour. One suspects the lambs’ concerns are not without foundation. And yet – what a glorious thing, to restore a creature so magnificent to its rightful dominion over the northern skies. Even this Author, not generally given to sentiment about birds, finds herself rather moved.
I am, as ever, your most devoted observer – Lady Whistledown.