Sunday, April 5th
I am not a big fan of the event, to be honest, but today was, inevitably, the day of our traditional Easter Egg Hunt. It is just me, Cook, and Jethro, and I am completely unclear whose task it is to hide the eggs, although it does not really matter because we never find any. I think there is probably a flaw in the organisation of the thing, but I do not mind. While Cook and Jethro are out in the grounds hunting, I slip back indoors and have a couple of pre-lunch gin and tonics, then when they come back I put on a pretty good show of being exhausted and frustrated that I did not find any eggs. All in all, I have no complaints. Well, perhaps just one or two.
Monday, April 6th
Easter Monday, and I am not really sure what it is for, unless it is for ordinary people to go to a pub, or spend one more day with people they do not like very much e.g. the family. I am fortunate, in that I have none of those pressures, and as for spending time with people I do not like very much, Cook and Jethro are not all bad. And Cook dished up a very extra-decent roast beef dinner yesterday evening, and has promised something lighter but equally pleasing this evening.
It was quite chilly this morning, but nice enough in the sunshine, and I spent some time outside, lounging with a light alcoholic beverage, and leafing through Algernon Tenderloin’s latest slim volume of what he calls poetry. I will tell him I enjoyed it, with my fingers crossed in a pocket. Most of his poems are simply dull, and while to be consistently dull is something of an achievement it is not an achievement to be so obviously pleased with, as Tenderloin is. At this point I was intending to quote a few lines to illustrate what I am talking about, but I left the book outside, and when I went to retrieve it later Jethro told me two of the goats had escaped for a while from the paddock and had gone on a bit of an eating expedition before he could recapture it. One or two of the shrubs look to have taken a bit of a chewing, but Tenderloins poems have been almost wholeheartedly deconstructed. I suppose if you are a goat you will deconstruct anything. A few crumpled pages remain and are readable – or as readable as they were in the first place – but I do not fancy keeping anything over which a goat has slobbered.
In the afternoon I was in the mood for a dose of Coleridge. It has been a while since I spent quality time with STC, and I felt obliged to apologise to him for my too long absence. This never fails to remind me what genius is:
My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook
Beat its straight path along the dusky air
Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light)
Had cross’d the mighty Orb’s dilated glory,
While thou stood’st gazing; or, when all was still,
Flew creeking o’er thy head, and had a charm
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.
Speaking of things which tell of life, Cook did not disappoint with dinner. What that woman can do with a chunk of salmon never ceases to delight me.
Tuesday, April 7th
Pondering the proposed writing of my autobiography, I am puzzling over how much to tell of my family’s background. How far back should one go? My grandfather on my mother’s side did honourable work in the waste disposal industry, which is how we were always told it was to be described. Indeed, there is nothing dishonourable in being a dustbin man for the local council, and the contrast between that and the dizzy heights of literary adulation and wealth that I enjoy goes to show the extent of my achievements. On the paternal side, the history is a bit more fun, with music halls playing a part, although not on the stage but somewhere behind it. As for the more than pleasant lifestyle I now enjoy, it is no secret that the money came from my father, who made the family fortune in sugary sweets, at one and the same time destroying a generation of children’s teeth and making oodles of delicious dosh.
I think if I tackle all of that I am going to make it as poetic as possible. Come to think of it, I might make the whole thing as poetic as possible. I might have to, because there are quite big chunks of the past that I cannot remember, which could be something of a drawback. I might have to lie a bit.
Apropos of which:
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire . . .
It is time I was in bed . . .
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James Henderson
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