Dearest Reader,
It is no simple task to remain distant from one’s devoted audience, though the task hath proven unavoidable. Some whisper that I have been down with a clogged nose, but rather to the grievous sin of having said nose buried too deeply in the affairs of others. Such is my lot, it seems, to be accused of breathing in gossip as though it were air itself. As the land prepares for grandeur, a funeral most peculiar goes unnoticed. Did you even know it was occurring? except by one statesman, MR who reminded us that the deceased was indeed a loss to the country. If nothing else, loyalty remains among friends.
In my absence, I was not forgotten. Far from it. Whispers turned to shouts, accusing the writer of neglect, as though the hunger for scandal were some holy right. If you are reading these words, dear one, you are either wildly unstable in emotion, sinking beneath debt, or for the sake of courtesy, perfectly whole. Though between us, I wouldn’t bet too heavily on the last.
Now, let us turn to the peculiar matter of treasure hunting, that most adventurous of crimes. Who would have thought it would lead to the unlikeliest of spectacles, with the wife of a DIG present in curious juxtaposition, loyalty and disloyalty cohabiting beneath one roof. Opposites indeed, most polar and most telling. And what of our nation’s education, a jewel, polished yet rarely treasured? Over half of our noble graduates do flee these shores, never to return. Tell me, why would they not? Why would they remain, after sacrificing years in pursuit of knowledge, only to be rewarded with a paltry sum insufficient for a life of dignity? They are not ungrateful, the land hath simply failed them. For what is free education, if not meant to serve both the privileged and the downtrodden alike? Equal it may be in entrance, yet unequal in its fruits.
The life of one showgirl doth spiral most dramatically, yet whilst the world believed her lost in tempestuous chaos, she was, in truth, only at her oven, conjuring loaves of sourdough. That unruly beast, how it shifts with time. In youth, she swore it was red, wild and perilous. Later, she praised it golden, tender, refined. Now, older and wiser, she sees it as orange, an imperfect blend, flawed yet true. Even the sun might envy love’s spectrum.
The toy wars continue too, Labubu, that strange little creature, haunts the city like a drunken politician, slurring through taverns and boasting of roads built with money that was never his. Ghastly, both the toy and the man. Yet even in such a world of chaos, levity abounds. From Jeremiah’s endless jests to the glitter of Georgina’s ring, whose sparkle might well scorch the earth itself, society endures, forever torn between folly and fascination.
And so, dear reader, I leave you with this truth: one need not seek scandal, for scandal seeks us all.
Yours most devotedly,
The Writer
