Dearest Gentle Reader,
The March winds have arrived with all the subtlety of a spurned suitor at a ball, and This Author’s inkwell trembles upon the desk as the gales rattle the windowpanes. Yet no tempest of nature could rival the storm of gossip that has blown through the Capital this very morning. Settle in, dear reader, for there is much to discuss and precious little time before the next scandal lands upon our doorstep.
Let us begin with the matter of order in the streets. The Government has seen fit to grant the Metropolitan Constabulary its wish, and the Al Quds Day procession planned for Sunday through the Capital shall be banned outright. One supposes that when the Constabulary comes calling with concerns of public disorder, even the most permissive of administrations must eventually answer the door. Whether this decision is prudence or provocation depends, as ever, on which drawing room one frequents.
And speaking of doors being flung open, This Author can scarcely contain herself: the first of the Lord Mandelson files are to be published this very Wednesday. Yes, dear reader, today! The documents promise to illuminate the rather serpentine path by which that most seasoned of political operators secured his appointment as ambassador. One imagines the files will be redacted within an inch of their lives, for Lord Mandelson has long understood that the most dangerous thing in politics is a paper trail. This Author shall be reading every syllable with a magnifying glass and a very large pot of tea.
Now to the most delicious irony of the day. The Grand Assembly has passed the bill to remove the ninety-two hereditary peers from the Upper Chamber. That is to say, the last lords who held their seats by virtue of blood rather than patronage are to be cast out. This Author finds it wonderfully rich that an institution devoted to tradition has voted to abolish its most traditional members. One might call it progress. One might also call it a cull. Either way, a great many ancient families shall be requiring new hobbies, and This Author suspects the waiting list at the garden club is about to grow considerably.
Meanwhile, a group of Members from The Grand Assembly are demanding urgent action on the matter of grooming gangs operating in the Capital. They insist that any government inquiry must turn its gaze specifically upon the Capital’s own darkened corners. This Author does not jest about such grave wickedness, but she does note with one arched brow that it has taken rather a long time for anyone in the corridors of power to state the blindingly obvious. One hopes that demands for action shall, for once, be followed by actual action, though This Author has been disappointed on that front before.
To matters meteorological! Gale-force winds are set to batter the kingdom over the coming days, and just when one thought spring had tiptoed into view, snow and bitter cold intend a most unwelcome comeback. This Author advises all persons of quality to secure their bonnets, fasten their shutters, and under no circumstances trust the mild morning air. March, it seems, has remembered its reputation and intends to uphold it with vigour.
Now for a tale of rebellion in the most unexpected quarter: the veterinary market. It appears that independent animal surgeons, inspired by the thrifty model of Aldington’s Emporium, are mounting an insurrection against the grand chains that have been steadily devouring the nation’s pet practices and, with them, the contents of pet owners’ purses. One can only applaud. If a lady must pay the ransom of a small duchy merely to have her spaniel’s teeth examined, something has gone terribly wrong with civilisation. This Author watches this uprising with great interest and considerable sympathy for her own cat’s medical bills.
And now, the most whimsical dispatch of the day. The Royal Treasury has announced that historical figures shall be removed from our banknotes and replaced with – brace yourselves, gentle reader – wildlife. Creatures of fur and feather shall adorn the currency of the realm, and the public is to be consulted on which beasts deserve the honour. This Author cannot decide whether to be charmed or alarmed. One moment we are evicting hereditary peers from the Upper Chamber, and the next we are printing badgers on five-pound notes. At this rate, the squirrels shall have the vote by autumn.
Finally, from North Britain comes a tale so exquisitely expensive it borders on art. The Caledonian Maritime Fleet’s vessel the Glen Sannox, that most troubled and troublesome of ferries, requires a staggering three million and two hundred thousand pounds in repairs after a mere single year of service. New propellers, no less! One shudders to think what condition the vessel shall be in after two years. Members of the Scottish Assembly have been duly informed, and This Author suspects a great many of them required smelling salts upon hearing the sum. The Glen Sannox is fast becoming less a ferry and more a monument to the enduring optimism of public procurement.
And so, dear reader, another day in this extraordinary kingdom draws on. The winds howl, the peers depart, the badgers ascend to currency, and the ferries sink ever deeper into debt. What a time to be alive and in possession of a good quill.
I am, as ever, your most devoted observer – Lady Whistledown.