Sunday, September 1st
September! That came around quick. The last time I looked it was Spring, theoretically at least.
Melissa telephoned but I took no notice. What she wanted may or may not have been of any consequence, but I couldn’t give a Sunday hoot, and I settled down to a few hours of Rachmaninov and some self-indulgent chocolates and cheroots, all washed down and around with a vat of decent red splosh. I couldn’t be not happier, but probably not much. I don’t think so, anyway. A selfish day. One of many, with more to come, what with Winter approaching, and the hibernation period due to start soon.
Days like this don’t makes for gripping diary entries, though. I suppose I could make stuff up, but what a pathetic waste of time that would be!
Monday, September 2nd
Rain all day: “no day to walk, but scurvy rain and wind”, to quote Jonathan Swift. I started to write a poem, but after the first couple of lines (“The rain is going up, which is / a bit odd, don’t you think?”) I couldn’t find another one that was as good. It’s of little consequence, because I’ll just save those two for another day.
Melissa telephoned. Cook said she was making some enquiries about heating systems and their mechanical, technical and economic qualities. I don’t see how Cook could help her with any of that.
It was piss poor outdoors, but enjoyed a pleasant afternoon with Brahms’ string sextets, and I fancied some Agatha Christie, so why not put my feet up and indulge? That’s what I think. I found that I have a book I didn’t know I had that contains three Poirot novels. I either haven’t read any of them, or I’ve forgotten them, so I’ve started in on that. “Dumb Witness” is the first of the three. Ideal for a scurvy day.
Tuesday, September 3rd
Another crappy damp day. I felt like having another binge of a decent read this afternoon, and I was in the mood for Elizabeth Bishop, who I adore. Copying out a few lines is an absolute pleasure:
Come with the pointed toe of each black shoe
trailing a sapphire highlight,
with a black capeful of butterfly wings and bon-mots,
with heaven knows how many angels all riding
on the broad black brim of your hat,
please come flying.
There’s more, but I’m tired and my hand’s a bit aching so I’m not copying out any more. It’s from “Invitation to Miss Marianne Moore”, another genius lady. I’d have loved to meet her. It’s this kind of thing makes me want to carry on being a genius too. Not many people get it, to be honest. I suppose it’s of little consequence and doesn’t really matter. Or does it?
Melissa telephoned just as I was going to bed. I couldn’t answer because I was in the middle of looking for my pyjama trousers.
Wednesday, September 4th
I have a vague feeling that September 4th is the anniversary of a wedding, perhaps one of mine. I’m not sure, and would have to look it up, though I have no idea where I would start looking.
I mentioned to Cook that I fancied something very meaty for supper, and she said she would see what she could do. To be honest, I was a bit surprised to get fish. I suppose it’s of no consequence at all that I don’t always get what I want.
Melissa telephoned. She told Cook about an anniversary, the details of which Cook then relayed to me. I shrugged it off as best I could, and shall say no more, but go to bed a bit grumpy.
Thursday, September 6th
There are days when you just don’t really seem to be able to get a good run at things, and they end up what I call “bitty”. So, Cook was out shopping and Jethro was busy, or pretending to be, so it befell me to hang around waiting for a delivery of something too boring to describe but it kind of disrupted my morning. I cracked a crossword but what with one eye open for the doorbell and the other ear listening out of the window to see if the delivery man was coming up the drive, and then thinking I might have a shave, then making coffee – well, I was up and down and all over the shot. The morning was rubbish, in short.
In the afternoon I tried some writing, and had a go at adding to the lines from the other day – I’m almost having a creative week! – but I should have known it would be a complete waste of time because I write absolute tosh and nothing of any consequence when I’m in a bad mood, so I abandoned the attempt pretty quickly, and tried to read, but that didn’t work either, so took Winnie out for a long walk. We had a decent chat. Dogs have a lot of sense.
Melissa telephoned. At least, I assume she did.
Friday, September 6th
Crikey, there’s sunshine and it’s warmer! I should really have gone out to get some of the sun, but I felt very sleepy and decided to stay in my jim-jams all day.
Cook asked me if I’d ever had wild boar. I told her I’d had one that was in a bit of a bad mood, but she didn’t get the joke so I didn’t push it, and then just said No, I hadn’t. It seems a travelling butcher has offered her some prime cuts, and she’s invested in a few hefty chunks – without asking me for permission, which she’s supposed to do before she gets too waywardly experimental, but it’s of little consequence and I couldn’t bring myself to chastise her, because it would have been more than pointless. I tried another bit of whimsy, telling her that while I may never have eaten boar I’ve known more than my fair share. I was wasting my time, and should know better.
Melissa telephoned. It was a weather report.
Off to bed with Agatha Christie. I’ve been sleeping pretty well lately, getting a solid 7 hours, although my dreams have been a bit too vivid, full of people I know doing things I don’t like.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)