Flitcroft Street was closed off by police this morning (24th October) when I came to church. There had been a sexual assault at some time overnight, and though the victim was physically unhurt she was, as the police put it, ‘psychologically damaged,’ as you might imagine. Henry Flitcroft, the architect of St Giles, could never have imagined that he would one day give his name to a grubby little alleyway that ran down the west side of the church which has become the nocturnal haunt of malevolent motives and pretty disgusting behaviour. The police wanted to see if we had picked up any imagery of the church CCTV cameras, but we could not help them very much. The hoarding in Flitcroft Street connected with works behind Denmark Street has made matters worse - the sooner it is taken down the better. I stood on the steps looking over the scene . . . and then a fox walked past on its morning route to get a latte from the coffee stall (not really) and then walked back again the other way. I’ve seen more foxes living in London than I ever saw from years in the countryside. Later that same day I met Sarah who wants to set up a scheme to provide mobile showers for the street homeless. You had to admire her practical compassion. There is hope yet, I thought, after all.
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