What a nightmare!

Dan Corrigan is not happy. So not happy he’s talking about himself in the third person.

London is gorgeous today, coming alive in early-summer sun, and I’m stuck in an office with no aircon, no company, and dull, dull work preparing docs for the Surer trustees’ meeting.

I need to go on a treasure-hunt through the archives but the archivist isn’t returning my messages. (Voicemail? You joke, our phones haven’t been upgraded since the 1980s. It’s small boys carrying messages in cleft sticks round here.)

The more I think about France, the more questions I’ve got. I want to know how Surer’s involved in all this but nobody will talk to me. It’s like I’ve become some kind of pariah, like there’s some big secret everybody knows except me.

I have a feeling answers may be bad for my health.


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