Thursday, September 24th
Algernon Tenderloin has asked me to participate in a poetry reading at a local bookshop, an event being billed, apparently, as a ‘Feast of Local Poets’. Please excuse the following language, but Fuck That! I am not a local poet. I am global. I once had a poem published by a journal based in Papua New Guinea. Not many people saw it, but that is of no consequence. I am tempted to say that I am more than global. I am universal. But perhaps that is for others to say, and they would say it if they could get their heads out of their arses. Not only that, this ‘Feast’ is set to feature more than 12 ‘local poets’. 12! And I have read some of these people, with their poems about ex-husbands, dead relatives and things they have seen on their holidays abroad. It is a truth never acknowledged that there are not 12 decent poets in the entire country, never mind in this locality.
I am thinking of calling my Diary a Journal. I do not really know what the difference is, but I think Journal sounds more refined. When I was a child the ‘Diary’ was a book with annual notable days in it, like the Queen’s birthday, and on this day commenced The Battle of the Bulge. Now I am a grown-up I see the ‘Journal’ as a record of one’s achievements and day-to-day doings. But then again I suppose there is Samuel Pepys: “I went out to Charing Cross to see Major General Harrison hanged, drawn, and quartered; which was done there, he looking as cheerful as any man could in that condition.” It is neither here nor there. My mind is wandering a little. Sometimes I am at a loose end. If anyone out there knows the difference between a diary and a journal please write in on a postcard to wherever this is.
One other thing to note today: Cook was heard to sing while laying the table for dinner, and she was humming as she delivered a rather delicious Nonnetes de Poulet, itself quite a treat for a damp Thursday. I did not remark to her on this welcome change in her demeanour. I am not stupid. But I am hopeful that this improvement in the atmosphere and inter-personal weather is permanent (albeit only for now). I was close to committing murder and/or suicide. The jury was out on which one to choose.
Monday, September 28th
A week or two ago I was giving serious consideration to giving up on keeping a Diary and, although I’ve not written anything for a few days, now I have decided to call it a Journal I am in two minds no longer. Instead, I am in three. If I could explain in words what I mean by that I would, but beyond it being a very, very faintly amusing thing to say I am unable to say more. If I were a mathematician I might say it numerically, but that too might prove tricky, because nothing at the moment seems to add up. I am feeling more than a little under the mental weather of late, and embarking upon what I thought was going to be a big new poem but which so far has not turned into anything on account of my being under the mental weather, I have to say that embarking upon did not keep my spirits up for very long. I think I might be a little bit sleep-deprived: I have not been getting my usual requisite 8 hours, and what hours I have had have been interrupted by more toilet breaks than one would wish. I hope this is not a sign of something ominous e.g. that old age has finally arrived.
At least Cook is on good form, and Jethro seems to be quite jovially preparing the grounds and livestock for the coming autumn and winter. Perhaps he has had a win on the horses; that is usually the sort of thing that kicks off a good Jethro mood. Then he loses a packet and we are back to normal. Cook, on the other hand, is not a betting woman. Not as far as I know, anyway.
Saturday, October 3rd
I have been feeling a little bit more myself the last day or two, and am restraining myself from making a crack about feeling someone else. Far be it from me to stoop that amusingly low. A couple of decent sleeps has helped.
This morning I had a letter (not a real letter, in an envelope with a stamp on it, but I detest emails, and try to avoid using the word) from a poet I vaguely know who lives in New Zealand (for the very good reason that she is a New Zealander). She is quite a good poet, I think, but struggles to get her work published outside New Zealand, and seems to be finding the world of poets in this country difficult to break into. I find that surprising, given how I thought that the Interweb had broken down national barriers and made a lot of things, including publishing poems, ridiculously easy, so easy that anyone can do it. She has asked me for assistance, but I do not know what I can do. I know quite a lot of people, but almost everyone I know who likes me is too old and largely inactive, and the people I know who do not like me (of which there seem to be quite a few) are very unlikely to help me or her. I could put her in touch with Tenderloin, but I quite like her, and do not want to cause her pain. This is a passage from one of her poems:
An ogre of foreboding is elephanting around the bed
I cannot sleep at night nor am I able to sleep during the day
My boss says he does not pay me to snore
But that is why I took this job in the bedding store
I think that is quite amusing, and rather delightfully engaging. It goes on to mention a dream walrus living in the wardrobe, which I think might be the best kind of walrus to have hanging around in one’s bedroom.
Sunday, October 4th
I spent the morning with Janet Baker. She is excellent company. Pair her with old Elgar and there’s none better:
The deeps have music soft and low
When winds awake the airy spry,
It lures me, lures me on to go
And see the land where corals lie.
That will do for now. It’s almost dinnertime. Cook is preparing venison, and I feel a G & T coming on.
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James Henderson
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