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The puffin, Gentle Reader, has thrown its hat into the ring. So has the buff-tailed bumblebee, the basking shark, and – with what one can only describe as magnificent audacity – the common frog. The Royal Treasury has announced that eighteen of Britain’s finest creatures are now shortlisted to grace the nation’s banknotes, replacing such tiresome figures as historical statesmen with wildlife of impeccable moral character. The public has one month to vote, though those harbouring hopes of nominating a stoat called Stoaty McStoatface will find themselves firmly rebuffed. This Author, for her part, is firmly in the barn owl camp. Silent, nocturnal, and perpetually alarmed-looking: rather like a senior minister at a press conference.
And yet, Gentle Reader, let us not pretend the rest of this Wednesday wears a cheerful face. In Southampton, grief has curdled into violence. The death of Henry Nowak – eighteen years old, stabbed on his way back to student accommodation by one Vickrum Digwa, who lied to police and claimed to be the victim of a racist attack – has shaken the Southern Kingdom to its foundations. Digwa was sentenced on Monday to life imprisonment with a minimum of twenty-one years. By Tuesday evening, missiles were flying at officers in Portswood, eleven of Her Majesty’s constabulary were injured, one police dog wounded, and two persons arrested. Nowak’s own family, displaying a dignity that puts the rioters to shame, asked that his death not become a source of further division. It appears certain individuals who had travelled four hours expressly to make trouble did not receive that particular memorandum.
Meanwhile, the question of how Nowak came to be handcuffed by the very officers who ought to have been protecting him has turned a scalding light upon an official guidance document from the police chiefs’ council – a document stating that equality of outcomes does not mean treating everyone “the same” or being “colour blind.” The Police Minister has now declared that this document “gives the wrong impression,” which is rather like discovering one’s calling card reads “habitual scoundrel” and noting that the font choice is unfortunate. The Office of Police Conduct is reviewing the guidance. Bodies titled things like the Office of Police Conduct reviewing documents about conduct is, one supposes, what passes for decisive action in this Kingdom.
If the affairs on land are unsettling, the skies have provided their own drama. Shortly before four o’clock this morning, a Royal Navy helicopter descended rather more rapidly than its pilots had intended into a field near Okehampton in Devon. Roads closed, wreckage visible, and witnesses reporting that the aircraft “sounded like it was mechanically failing” as it cleared – barely – a local gentleman’s rooftop. The War Office has confirmed the craft belonged to the Royal Navy and that an investigation is under way, adding that it would be “inappropriate to comment further at this time.” This Author notes that crashing into a field at four in the morning is, in itself, a fairly comprehensive comment. One trusts all souls aboard receive every prayer the county of Devon can muster.
And finally, for those who had hoped to take comfort in the long view of their financial futures, a pensions trade body has delivered the sort of intelligence that makes one reach for the smelling salts. More than three-quarters of working people are not on course to save enough for what is charitably termed a “moderate” retirement – defined as £32,700 per annum for one person. A mere nine percent can expect anything approaching “comfortable.” The remaining eighty-two percent may console themselves with the knowledge that the minimum standard does include one week’s holiday in the United Kingdom and the occasional meal at a restaurant. Once a month. This Author wishes them joy of it. Perhaps the common frog on their future banknotes will prove diverting company in old age.
I am, as ever, your most devoted observer – Lady Whistledown.