I would not be so morbid as to assume that if you are reading this diary then I am no longer living. Staying here for as long as I have has made me realise the futility of guessing what is around the next corner. And books, it seems, have a life all of their own. Left on dusty shelves in some forgotten library, passed from father to son, mother to daughter. Such is the silent life of books. To guess how it came into your possession would be as impossible and as inconsequential as to trace a grain of rice back to the paddy field from which it originated. So if you are reading this whilst it is no longer in my possession, please do not come looking for me. I will leave this diary behind if, and only if, I feel I have learnt all there is to learn from my life here. After that moment I will not wish anything to do with it.
I fear that if I do not write everything down now my memory may fail me before I have the chance to pass it on or indeed a willing ear to listen. Now as to why I think that my life here is of note I hope will become apparent as you read on.
The whys and wherefores of my arrival at Hunter Square are both boring and unimportant. Suffice to say that I was lost. Thanks in many ways to my stay at Hunter Square this is no longer the case. This being said I shall begin my account from the moment before I stepped through the great oak doors of No. 10.
Forever yours,
Rupert Fairchild.
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