Justin here – on a lovely June morning with my hollyhocks fairly bursting with vibrant summer colour.
But all is not well. I am most dreadfully concerned about the plight of that young Snowden fellow – you know, the one who blew the gaff on our American cousins being so sneaky by using their electronic surveillance capabilities to spy on us all. Apparently, the forces of law and order in the United States would like to apprehend Mr Snowden and ask him some jolly direct questions about what he has done. Consequently, Mr Snowden is flitting from country to country, seeking sanctuary. Why I myself penned a letter to him offering my own cathedral as a place of safety with a constant supply of my dear wife’s delicious pilchard sandwiches and buttered scones for sustenance. I’m sorry to have to report that as I was writing, I was aware of someone standing behind me. It was the young man with a wire in his ear. Taciturn at the best of times, on this occasion he said nothing at all, but merely reached down, grabbing my unfinished letter.
Believe it or not, he then ate it, along with my pen and departed as quietly as he had arrived, wagging an admonishing finger as he went. I have lots of pens and some lovely headed notepaper. I am writing this under the stairs and will try to get this missive to those nice people at Pangolin as soon as I can.
Earlier today I rang the Prime Minister to register my unease with our transatlantic friend’s actions with regard to Mr Snowden. After all, whilst he might have broken their laws, he did so to reveal much greater transgressions on their behalf. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get through. After some odd clicking noises, an unfamiliar and rather coarse voice said that the P.M. was not available and that I should sod off and stop bloody well interfering. I found this very puzzling, but nowhere near as strange as the young man with the wire in his ear appearing as I replaced the telephone. He appeared to be tapping the side of his nose with his index finger. I think he was smiling slightly. Undeterred, I went to my study to retrieve my mobile phone and do you know – I could not find it anywhere!
So now my problem is to discover a way of delivering this Thought for the Day. Methinks I shall conceal this piece about my person and stroll down to the village, there to avail myself of the services of Miss Partridge at the Post Office. Hmm. Perhaps I should re-word that. But time presses, and as Saint Botolph so succinctly put it, “Needs must when the devil’s been sick in your kettle”. Or was that the dreadful Blackadder?
Or Lady Barnet?