Wednesday, November 5th
It has come to my attention that someone (a lady, I believe; I do not know her name) has won a prize and, I assume, a bundle of money for publishing their diary as a “non-fiction” book. Well, good luck to them is what I say. I am fortunate in that I already have a lot of money and having more would threaten to be in poor taste. Having said that, if any enterprising publisher out there would like me to gather all of my diary entries together and make them into a prize-winning volume I would not argue. And I can promise them a decent commission, a percentage of the prize money, as a reward for their enterprise. I may be contacted via the editor of this journal.
A note from Algernon Tenderloin. He is gushing about the fact that he is having a new little pamphlet of poems published soon. I think it will be his 112th. They are all much of a muchness. I should know. I have read them all, for my sins.
Thursday, November 6th
It is surely illegal, never mind downright thoughtless, to be setting off fireworks after midnight. Even Guy Fawkes and his cronies had planned to get things going in daylight hours, although I admit that fireworks during the day would probably lose a good deal of their effect. But I was kept awake until the early hours by morons who had no thought for anyone but themselves, unless it was the intent to disturb the entire neighbourhood. I considered calling the constabulary to lodge a formal complaint, but that would have meant getting out of bed and going downstairs to the telephone, and I could not be arsed.
Cook was sympathetic, because she too was kept awake, and prepared her special weekend beef casserole as a palliative (is that the word?) and to cheer us both up.
Listened to a very good concert performance of Mahler’s 2nd Symphony on the wireless this evening, which cheered up the day, and along with the beef casserole made for a pleasant and satisfying end to a day that did not begin at all well.
Friday, November 7th
Today I donated some dosh to a chap selling poppies in the village. Because I gave him the grand sum of £2 (I had some loose change that I was happy to be rid of) he gave me, instead of the usual papery thing that can look a little shabby after a few days, a little metal pin that actually is quite spiffing. If one looks closely it says ‘2025’ on it underneath the poppy, but I see no reason why I can’t use it in future years and not have to donate ever again. I can hardly imagine anyone would ever dare to check and see if I am wearing the current year’s “pin”.
Apropos of the entry of a couple of days ago regarding the prize-winning diary, I have learned that the lady won £50,000! That is not to be sniffed at, even when you are as rich as I am. I would be prepared to let my publisher have, say, 10% of that for their trouble. Let me remind any publisher interested that I am here, and available.
Saturday, November 8th
I am embarking upon a big and ambitious new poem. Frankly, I have not been writing much verse of late because I already have a load of genius work in the bag and I have felt like I have probably done enough, but quite out of the blue I find I have the urge to do something large and wondrous. I am thinking something along the lines of faux-autobiographical with lashings of social commentary and oodles of philosophical musings, all with a cheeky and hilarious tongue-in-cheek humour. I know it sounds ambitious, but it is me doing it, so I do not foresee any problems. I have some opening lines:
My mother (Mater) never explained to me her reason
for not turning up to witness my birth. All she ever
said was she had better things to do, it being the season
of hunting and sundry other important society matters.
and I shall be adding to them over the course of the next however long it takes. Did you notice the rhyme? I do not know if I shall continue with that. Rhyme can be a very large pain in the bottom, if truth be told.
Sunday, November 9th
Listened this morning to my LP of Marian Anderson, the renowned American singer from (almost) ancient times. It’s an old, old LP, and they are also obviously very old recordings, but her voice is the kind of voice you don’t hear today on pop records. But I don’t listen to pop records these days if they were recorded after the golden age of the mid-1960s to the early 1970s. Cook said that Anderson’s voice reminded her of her mother. As far as I know, Cook’s mother used to be the wife of the Town Crier.
The aforementioned Cook was interrupting my musical interlude to ask for help with a wobbly table in her room. She said it had been getting on her nerves for ages. This would normally be Jethro’s territory but today being Sunday he was gone out, I have no idea where, and quite why the thing needed such urgent attention today I am unclear, but never mind. This was the first time I had been in Cook’s quarters since before Time began, and I had not realized the luxury she enjoys. Silken tapestries, deep pile carpets, the works. I couldn’t fix the table. It will have to wait for Jethro. As for those riches and sumptuous furnishings, I may be exaggerating a little for humorous effect.
Monday, November 10th
Presumably because it is a Monday, and he knows I loathe Mondays, Jethro collared me while I was at breakfast to tell me there is a wasp nest in the stables. I thought wasps went to sleep this time of year, but apparently they are settling in for the winter. Jethro says it is the best time to get at them, when they are not expecting it, and we should call in the pest people. Alright. I look forward to their arrival; it will be something to watch. Perhaps they could have a crack at a few unwanted villagers while they are in the area.
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James Henderson
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