Monday, August 19th
The postman delivered the slim volume of poetry I’ve agreed to review. I opened it briefly, then closed it again. I’m not really in the mood, and I’m also well aware that I’m expected to heap a quantity of praise upon it. I don’t know why I make these problems for myself, when I could be elsewhere, squandering my fortune on wine, women and song. That’s terribly politically incorrect, I suppose, so remind me to cross it out.
Occasionally a chicken or two will decide to wander into the house to have a look around, and Winnie and the kittens, Rumple and Teazer, are then consumed with trying to work out what’s happening. This morning’s elevenses was interrupted by a hen that seemed to want a chat. I have no idea if what she had to say was of any consequence, because I don’t speak chicken lingo.
Melissa telephoned. Neither I nor Cook were available to take the call.
Tuesday, August 20th
If I’d been any sleepier today I would have been asleep. I’m not sure that makes sense, but I know what I mean.
Melissa telephoned. There are more kittens available, apparently. She should go into business.
I’ve had a quick skim of the poems I’ve said I would review. I don’t like them much – they clearly lack consequence – and I don’t want to waste my time with them, which means I’m going to have to make my excuses. If only poems today were as good as this:
I now think Love is rather deaf than blind,
For else it could not be
That she,
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me
And cast my love behind.
I’m sure my language to her was as sweet,
And every close did meet
In sentence of as subtle feet,
As hath the youngest He
That sits in shadow of Apollo’s tree.
O, but my conscious fears,
That fly my thoughts between,
Tell me that she hath seen
My hundred of gray hairs,
Told seven and forty years
Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace
My mountain belly and my rocky face;
And all these through her eyes have stopp’d her ears.
Ben Jonson, on top form, made my day, and reminded me why poems matter.
Wednesday, August 21st
I’ve had another look at those poems to make sure I’m not doing them an injustice, and they’re definitely of no consequence. The days are dull enough at the moment without having to bother about work one doesn’t want to do and, more to the point, doesn’t have to do. And anyway, the sun was shining, so why spoil it?
On the topic of work, Cook and Jethro are well-paid for their labours and also get somewhere to live. So when I see (and have to listen to) Jethro go about his tasks grumbling about this, that and the other I wonder what he would do if he had to actually go out to work and do a real job. Pottering around the stables and the vegetable garden doesn’t strike me as especially arduous.
Melissa telephoned. She and Cook get on rather well. I’ve decided I’m not going to answer the phone for a few days, and leave it to Cook, or let it go unanswered.
Thursday, August 22nd
I feel rather grumpy at the moment, which is not at all like my usual sunny demeanour. I suppose it’s of no consequence, because I don’t have much to do with many other people so nobody of any importance will suffer. I keep my social contacts down close to the minimum. What’s the minimum? None, I suppose. It’s very windy today, not that it matters.
Melissa telephoned. Cook said she’s asked if she can come over for a visit. The answer is No. Tell her we have the plague.
Friday, August 23rd
A pleasant walk with Winnie this morning as far as Hilly Hillocky Hill, or whatever it’s called today.
Melissa telephoned. I forgot I’d decided not to answer the phone for a few days and picked up. Damn. She asked if our plague had cleared up, and if it had would I be going to the fete on Monday. Apparently it’s a Bank Holiday this weekend. Surely she should know me better than that, and No, “the plague” is not cleared up.
I’ve begun reading a novel by Herman Melville I’ve not read before – “Pierre”. It comes with vague warnings in the introduction of being a bit awful and a bit mad, but interesting. The first 50 pages are bearing out the first two of those predictions. I shall hang in for a while longer, because it hasn’t really got going yet, and some of those old novels take a while to get up to speed. But I’m not getting any younger, so it had best hurry up.
My old pal Horace dropped by late on, and we spontaneously dined together, Cook being in one of her better moods and making last minute adjustments to the menu. She did us proud with a pasta something or other, and of course there’s always enough plonk to make even an ordinary supper go down well. Horace says he’s taking an interest in a lady widow he bumped into (literally) in the supermarket, and who he then “chatted up”. He’s something of a lothario, but he has no staying power, although to compensate he’s got a lot of spending power if it’s someone else’s money. It’s of no consequence to me, but the ladies should be on their guard.
Saturday, August 24th
A stay at home Saturday. I have a lot of those, sometimes more than one a week.
Melissa telephoned. Cook spoke with her at length, and she said Yes, the plague is gone, thank you, though we’re still feeling a trifle low.
Listened to several gramophone records today, Mahler and Mozart mainly, feet up on the couch, seedless grapes within easy reach. Rearranged the records on their shelves. Some of them had slipped out of alphabetical and numerical order. Symphony no. 8 comes immediately after no. 7, not before no. 4, and the Schumanns and Schubert seem to have mixed themselves up. I don’t know who’s responsible. I’m the only person here who ever touches them. Cook prefers Jim Reeves, and anyway she’s not allowed near them. I hope Mrs. Jennings isn’t getting beyond herself when she’s here cleaning. I suppose it’s of no consequence, but on the other hand, perhaps it is.
I’ve had an email from an admirer of my written works of genius, asking for explanations of how I do what I do, but they should know better than expect me to cough up trade secrets. Also I don’t know how I do what I do. Who can explain God-given brilliance, after all? You just enjoy it when you have it, the same as you do with the fortune your old man left you.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)
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