Skip to content
Dearest Gentle Reader,
This Author has spent the week surveying a ton that appears, with remarkable consistency, to have arranged its affairs so that the wrong parties suffer and the deserving wait longest. It is, one begins to suspect, not accident but policy.
The week opened on Monday with four thousand souls facing ruin at a celebrated carriage house, before Tuesday brought hosepipe bans through the wettest week in recent memory – a coincidence so perfectly British it hardly requires further commentary. Wednesday confirmed what the careful observer long suspected: that the law, much like the season’s most coveted ballroom, reserves its warmest welcome for precisely the guests who deserve it least.
By Thursday, thirty souls had mistaken a touring cricket side for something altogether more alarming, and a mayor had been handed fresh means to relieve you of your coin. Friday furnished revenge in black silk and a guilty plea a full twenty-eight years in the making – proof, if any were needed, that justice keeps its own eccentric schedule.
Then came the money. Saturday delivered thirty-six million reasons for a certain Viscount to smile, and Sunday doubled the sum and added a researcher who fears we shall all be dispatched by artificial intelligence before the next election settles anything at all. One finds, on reflection, that the week’s true scandal is not any single episode but the breathtaking speed at which the extraordinary has become merely Tuesday.
This Author remains, as ever, your most devoted and watchful servant.