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Forty-five minutes into Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, somewhere between Diagon Alley and a rather more pressing matter, a young woman named Molly Connah looked at her mother and said, “I need to push.” Her mother said she could not. She very much could, and did, and young Elsie Lamb now holds the singular distinction of having “Cineworld Broughton” inscribed upon her birth certificate for all eternity. This Author has attended the cinema under many uncomfortable circumstances, but none quite so dramatic as that. One hopes the credits, at least, were impressive.
This Author raises a teacup to little Elsie, and pivots – with rather less joy – to the state of the nation’s purse strings.
The Office of National Statistics has informed us, with its customary cheerful precision, that inflation has climbed to 3.1% – its highest in five months – driven chiefly by petrol, diesel, and the audacity of airline tickets during peak summer. Motor fuel prices have risen 23% compared to August last year. Petrol now sits at 161.3p per litre, the highest since November 2022. Oil has surged past ninety-one dollars a barrel as the conflict between the American Colonies, Israel, and Persia continues to convulse global supply. One economist has helpfully predicted inflation peaking at 4.2% in January. The Season of Goodwill, it seems, shall cost considerably more than anticipated.
Meanwhile, Lord Burnham, our Prime Minister, has taken to the digital salons to thank well-wishers following the death of his father Roy on Monday. Roy Burnham, a former telephone engineer, raised his son in Culcheth, Cheshire, with, as the Prime Minister wrote, “laughter, love and support.” It is reported, with a tenderness that silences even this Author’s pen, that Roy did not know his son had become Prime Minister, owing to the cruelties of advanced Alzheimer’s. The leaders of all parties sent their condolences. There are moments when the business of power pauses, and this is one. Lord Burnham, the Grand Assembly awaits your return, but grief takes its proper time.
With Lord Burnham indisposed, one might have hoped the Kingdom would take a quiet breath. It has not. The War Office for Justice – or rather, the Lord Healey at the Royal Exchequer – is in talks about joining a global defence investment bank, championed by Lord Carney of Canada, and supported by Albania, Bulgaria, Belgium, Greece, Latvia, Luxembourg, Romania, Turkey, and Ukraine. Readers will note that Lady Reeves, Lord Healey’s predecessor, rejected this very idea not long ago. Nothing clarifies the mind on military expenditure quite like Muscovy firing emergency flares at a Danish helicopter in the Baltic Sea, which is precisely what occurred on Tuesday. NATO Secretary General Mark Rutte is travelling to the Kingdom to praise our seriousness about security. One does hope someone tells him about the petrol prices.
And then – and This Author confesses this is her favourite dispatch of the day – the village of Piddington in Oxfordshire, population 350, has voted 285 to 26 to declare independence from the Kingdom. The cause: the Office of Home Affairs‘ proposal to house up to 1,256 male asylum seekers at nearby MoD Bicester. Votes were cast in a small box outside the village hall. The vice-chair of the parish council declared, with magnificent gravity: “We are Piddington – the village that roars.” Culture Secretary Lady Nandy, appearing on the Broadcasting Society‘s Morning Programme, confirmed the government would not be reconsidering. This Author notes, with deep admiration, that 350 souls armed with a ballot box have briefly achieved more column inches than most members of the Grand Assembly. One ballot paper was spoiled. Even in revolution, there is always one dissenter who cannot commit.
I am, as ever, your most devoted observer – Lady Whistledown.