Sunday, 8th July 2001

Today at the Vicarage. The Vicarage.

An unexpected midweek return to the peace of the English countryside. The ongoing life of the countryside, and of the house itself, is reassuring. Such enduring presences help to place our own lives into perspective, and remind us that we are little more than custodians, passing through. I stare at my beloved cedar tree, and know that this is somewhere I could die happily.
My wife is still away, but I sense her presence in her favourite parts of the garden, and draw on her strength and support.

It is now time to share the reason for my disquiet. Yesterday, Punk, the associate to whom I anonymously referred in previous postings, was convicted in the Crown Courts in London, and is currently awaiting sentencing.

Some of the incidental details of the trial have been included in recent diary postings. Suffice to say, an acquittal was expected by all who attended the trial – with the evident exception of the jury.

I sense that a gross miscarriage of justice has occurred, and have been steeling myself for the task that has fallen to me. This is not a cross that I wish to bear, but if I do not pick it up, who will? I am reminded that once there is full commitment, friends will mysteriously appear. I may not like these friends. And they may not like me, but that is irrelevant.

I have begun to draft a letter to a long list of worthies, including all the national newspapers. If possible, I will post it here tomorrow.

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