Sunday, August 25th
A rather damp walk across the meadows this morning (dew? rain? both?) alerted me to the fact that I have a hole in my shoe. I noticed a dampness around the toe area of the right foot, and investigation revealed etc. etc. I don’t buy footwear very often, to be honest. The last time I bought new shoes was so long ago the old King might have been on the throne. I shall have to venture into town and find a shoe shop. I hate that kind of thing. I shall have to wash my feet and put on clean socks. It’s of little consequence, I suppose, but all the same it’s a heck of an inconvenience.
Melissa telephoned. Cook said she said it’s Sunday, and to be good.
Monday, August 26th
Another week begins, with its promise of adventure and discovery and, if the past is anything to go by, excitement enough to wet the pants. Yes, I’m feeling quite ironic this morning, but it’s of no consequence, and not at all unusual. Perhaps it’s because I rather loathe Bank Holidays, with everyone’s expectation that you’ll be going out and having fun.
Last night in bed I read a ghost story by M.R. James: “Canon Alberic’s Scrapbook”. How come I haven’t read this chap before? I couldn’t go to sleep afterwards! I shall definitely read another one tonight.
Melissa telephoned. I’m fed up of avoiding picking up the phone so I picked up the phone and pretended to be Cook.
Tuesday, August 27th
A poor night’s sleep, but it had nowt to do with M.R. James and “Lost Hearts”. I didn’t nod off until well past 2, and slept fitfully until just before 8. As a consequence I was not at all prepared for the travails of the coming day.
So I had to go into town to purchase new footwear. I don’t like shoe shops. They used to be alright, because nice middle-aged ladies would measure the size of your foot on one of those measuring devices, and they would behave like a kindly aunt and offer you all kinds of suggestions as to the shoe you might want, until you decided on the shoes you actually did want. Then you went to school in your new shoes and they rubbed like the devil and gave you a blister on the heel. Nowadays you have to wander around the shop and find your own shoes from off the shelves, then persuade a surly young person to break off their conversation with a mate to see if they have the shoe you want in your size. Then they disappear for ten minutes and return with an uninterested ‘No’, and resume their chat with their pal. All of that’s accompanied by loud music by people who know very little about music. Anyway, eventually I purchased a robust and weatherproof pair, one right and one left, at an exorbitant price, and I hope I won’t have to repeat the experience again for several years, if ever.
Melissa telephoned. It was real Cook’s turn.
Wednesday, August 28th
The hedge cutters have been here today, the second time this summer. There’s been a good deal of growth, and a severe cutting back was needed. With hedge cutting comes the noise of the electric saw, incessant except for when the chaps break off for a fag. It’s not pleasant, especially when they’re near the house. I gather this is going to go on for a couple of days. I seem to recall Robert Frost wrote a poem about this kind of thing – maybe several poems about this sort of thing. I’m not sure. It’s of no consequence and I can’t be arsed to check.
Melissa telephoned. Cook said she was complaining about the noise of electric saws, but didn’t know where the noise was coming from.
Thursday, August 29th
More saws, though today they’re a little further from the house, so they were a more distant annoying buzz in the back of the ears.
Melissa telephoned. She said she’s been. . . actually, I didn’t listen closely enough to find out what she had been. I’m sure it’s not important.
A visit today from The Countess, who’s not a real countess but she likes to be called one and she acts like she is. She was on one of her occasional tours around the region, and condescended to drop in to see if I had any spare change knocking about that I could donate to one of her numerous charities, most of which I believe benefit her. Oddly, it happened I had no cash in the house, and was unable to dispense any funds by way of cheque because my accountant has everything at his office this week because he’s doing some kind of accounting thing. At least, that’s what I told her.
The Countess writes what she likes to call “verse”. Usually it’s about flowers. Occasionally it’s about flowers and kittens. And if someone she knows dies they’ll get a poem saying how great they were when they were alive, although they’re not around to read it. I don’t know why she doesn’t write them the poem while they’re still alive, unless of course she knows that reading it will kill them, which I reckon would count as a grave consequence.
After she left I needed an poetry antidote, which is not something you can get at the chemist, but a visit to the good ol’ “Oxford Book of English Verse” (the Quiller-Couch edition) can be relied upon to render up something worthwhile. I like to go random: page 719:
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert—
That from heaven or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
Saturday, August 31st
Jethro has asked if we can get some geese. He’s beginning to get on my nerves, to be honest, with his list of things that need doing or suggestions about this and that. He said geese keep the grass cropped. So do you and a lawn mower, I replied. It’s of not much consequence, but naturally I gave him a firm No. I knew a chap once who had geese and they not only made a dreadful noise but they always went for your ankles when you went near them. They’re not as bad as goats, but they run them a close thing.
Melissa telephoned. She says she knows someone who has some geese looking for a home. Now there’s a coincidence.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)
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