https://www.frontpagemag.com/fpm/2020/05/dedicated-emily-jones-age-7-katie-hopkins/
Dear Mrs Jones,
I am sitting in my kitchen in my dressing gown, waiting for my little world to wake up. And I am thinking of you, as I often do. Worrying for you, worrying about you.
You don’t know me, of course. I am just a mum like any other, sitting here looking down at my dressing gown, reminded that it could probably do with a wash, listening for little footsteps padding down the hall stairs. Sat waiting for my sleepy little boy who will come and snuggle in for reassurance at the start of another day.
I think of you listening out for those little padding feet, knowing they will never come. Waiting for the soft face to appear from behind the kitchen door, looking at you like you are the answer to everything. Except now all those questions can never be asked.
It is over a month since your daughter was killed. You know, I am never sure under this infernal lockdown whether time stands still or is passing at breakneck speed. Days have lost all meaning for the rest of us; I feel sick thinking what they now mean for you.
Most people will avoid talking to you about Emily’s death because it is too terrible. The things we know are too shocking to mention in front of a grieving mum.
That your child was a happy little thing playing on her scooter in the park with her family on Mothering Sunday when she was stabbed to death, her life ended in one blow by a Somali woman, a stranger to you and to this land.
If these words are too brutal for the grieving, how is it possible these things can happen to the living, on an otherwise normal day?