Sunday, August 11th
It says lots about the condition of my imagination at the moment that the only thing I could think to record today was a weather report, but it also says lots for my levels of critical awareness (much-praised by some, abhorred by possibly more) that what I was going to say about the weather I shall leave unsaid. It may not be of much consequence, but it means I’ve kept a hold of my self-respect, at least until I open the plonk at dinnertime.
Melissa telephoned. She talked about the weather and not much else, so I’m not including that, either.
No other news.
Monday, August 12th
Melissa telephoned. She reminded me that it’s my granddaughter’s birthday today. I told her I already knew that. That was much wiser than asking her which one.
By email, I’m asked by an editor-friend if I know the work (poetry work, that is) of someone called Pansy Pomeroy. Apparently he thinks she’s something of a rising star, and he’s considering publishing a slim volume and, for reasons I don’t really understand, wanted to know my thoughts on the matter. But since she’s a complete vacuum to me I’m of no use, and naturally I think it’s of no consequence. But I told him that with a name like that she was sure to go far, but in what direction I couldn’t be sure.
While on the subject of names, I’m thinking of giving the chickens names, but Jethro thinks that’s not a good idea. He says we shouldn’t get too attached to them. He’s not much of a romantic. But he’s probably right about the name thing, and there are loads of them, too. It’d be a lot of names.
Tuesday, August 13th
Lunch today with Dominic Bellboy and Alec Tarbuck at The Wayward Inn, which is famous locally for its toad-in-the-hole. But lunch turned out to be a bag of crisps: the kitchen was closed because their cook has got a cold and hadn’t turned in. Incidentally, I have a line in a poem I knocked off recently that says “Literary chit-chat is so boring, don’t you think?” I just mention it. It’s of little consequence.
Returned home to find my Cook upset about a lump of ham that apparently was not as fresh as it might have been, and she was on the telephone to someone about it. I left her to it; her territory is her territory.
Melissa telephoned. She warned about some contraband meat that was doing the rounds being sold out the back of a lorry. I passed her on to Cook.
I’ve agreed to write a review of a little book by someone I sort of know, a poet I’ve liked at times but these days I’m not so sure. This may be a bit of a mistake, but we shall see. I can always change my mind. It’s a lady’s prerogative.
Wednesday, August 14th
I felt like a bit of exercise this morning so I cut the grass around the vegetable patch. Not terrifically energetic, and I have a bit of a back ache as a consequence.
from Herodotus, about some tribe or other in Thrace: “When a baby is born, the family sits around and mourns at the thought of the sufferings the infant must endure now that it has entered the world, and goes through the whole catalogue of human sorrows; but when somebody dies, they bury him with merriment and rejoicing, and point out how happy he now is, and how many miseries he has at last escaped.” Some of these ancient people knew a lot more than we do.
Melissa telephoned. She said she has a tummy upset, presumably from something she ate.
Thursday, August 15th
I have some residual back ache, but enjoyed a pleasant walk after breakfast.
Melissa telephoned. She wanted to know if her friend could park a caravan somewhere on my estate for a few days while they visit the area. No, they can’t. They’re probably hippies, and next thing you know there’ll be a music festival outside my back door, which would be of no little consequence.
Friday, August 16th
I’ve been invited to be the guest poet-reader at an inaugural event for a new series of public readings in the autumn, but I’m going to decline. Audiences at inaugurals can often be disappointing, and then if the series becomes successful you don’t get asked to appear because you’ve already been on, back when nobody was taking any notice. Plus, I don’t really want do to anything in the way of public events. I prefer being mysterious and reclusive and only occasionally being glimpsed in public these days, so when I do take to the podium it’s a special event for all concerned.
Melissa telephoned. Cook took the call. I don’t know what she wanted, and it was sure to be of next to no consequence.
Made rather a mess with gravy down my shirt front at supper. I’d had a tad too much plonk. (This probably don’t merit a diary entry.)
Saturday, August 17th
Melissa telephoned. I wasn’t awake. Cook was preparing breakfast but took the call anyway.
I have a bit of a big headache this morning. And my back is stiff.
Bill and Betty Barber, my very alliterative nearish neighbours and not especially close friends but they’re alright, phoned and asked me round to lunch, and to see their new greenhouse. I’m not sure why they thought I would be interested in a greenhouse, but I’m nothing if not a good nearish neighbour and an even better actor, and so I made all the right noises around the greenhouse, which privately I thought they should have installed much earlier in the year, then they could have used it for tomatoes and the like. But I didn’t say that. Did I mention my old man was in the diplomatic service?
Instead I happily feasted on Betty’s quiche and salad lunch, some rather fine Chardonnay, and a pretty decent postprandial cigar which Bill said had been rolled on the bare thigh of a Cuban lass, much to Betty’s dismay. I think he’d heard someone say it in a film or something of the sort.
Several hours later, for dinner, Cook was all a-fluster because she was keen to try out a new fish dish she’d discovered. Don’t ask me what it was. It tasted of fish, and was alright. Again, the actor in me triumphed, and I made out that I was in raptures over it, which means I’ll probably get it again very soon. When Cook finds a winner she has no hesitation in dishing it up as frequently as she can. It’s of little consequence. I like fish, and it’s good for you.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)
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