THE DIARY OF A GENTLEMAN-POET

Monday, September 9^th

I completely neglected my diary over the weekend, but nothing of note happened that I can recall so it’s of negligible consequence. I suppose I could mention it rained all day yesterday, and that we had boar for dinner. It was rather nice: a little bit sweet, a little bit nutty. But to mention it would be “boring”. Ho ho.

Melissa telephoned. She says she also had boar for dinner last night and didn’t like it. (She’s not at all sweet, but definitely a bit nutty . . . I jest, sort of . . . )

A letter from a fan suggesting that I should “put myself about” and do some literary festivals, or some other public readings. I think they mean in libraries. Do towns still have those? She (I have a lot of lady admirers) thinks I should get out more. We’ve been here before, I think. But I don’t wish particularly to mix with literary folk. I don’t know what to say to them most of the time.

Tuesday, September 10^th

Melissa telephoned, not unexpectedly.

 “The Oxford Book of English Verse” – the Quiller-Couch version – has been on my desk the last few days, because sometimes I’m slow to return things to a shelf, and while supping une tasse de thé came across this in a poem by Giles Fletcher:

            And a world of ladies send me
            In my chambers to attend me

You wouldn’t get away with writing that kind of thing now. You’re probably not even allowed to think it. Bad boy, Giles!

Decided to listen to the lunchtime concert on the wireless, but turned it off after ten minutes. I know Benjamin Britten was quite a bit of a genius, because a lot of clever people say he was, and I’ve heard some of his music I liked, but if he’s going to write songs (these were settings of poems by John Donne) could he not at least try writing a tune? Perhaps it’s of little consequence, but I must say that when it comes to songs i.e. music with words attached, my favourite things tend to be those you can whistle, or sing in the bath.

Wednesday, September 11^th

Awoke ridiculously early this morn at 5.45, and all attempts to return to The Land of Nod were a failure, so I got up, helped myself to some orange juice from the refrigerator, and returned to bed to read. I felt enormously sleepy later in the day, even though I’d had a decent 7 hours. Went for a ride in the carriage to try to shake off the slumbery feelings, but it was only a partial success. I’m planning an early night tonight.

I had a surprise visit from Algernon Tenderloin (not his real name, but future researchers shouldn’t have too much trouble . . .) the UK’s self-proclaimed “leading minimalist agricultural poet”. By that he means he goes for walks in the countryside, sees a cow in a field, writes down the word “cow”, several times and calls it a poem, and when asked to explain he says it’s a herd. And he’ll give it a title like “Mother”. There was no warning telephone call, he just turned up on the doorstep. It turns out he’s moved into a nearby village (Little Bottom on the Turd, or some such hole) which is about as much bad news as I needed, and I was pretty sleepy, as I mentioned. He’s an okay chap, given that he’s a sort of poet, but I try to keep my distance from the species, and having one so close is a bit scary, because I attract them like wasps to honey, and he may have friends and visitors, and want to bring them here. Anyway, he was full of the fact that he has some verse upcoming in the next issue of “Literary Extractions” magazine, which sounds to me like a journal for dentists who like to read for a bit while their next patient sits terrified in the waiting room. I really have no idea, and care even less, because it’s of no consequence or relevance to anything anywhere at all.

Melissa telephoned. She said she’s thinking of having a new kitchen installed but wonders if it’s worth the expense. I really don’t care.

Friday, September 12^th

When I returned home from my walk with Winnie, Cook was on the phone, deep in conversation with someone I took to be a vegetable merchant. We don’t need to buy vegetables. We grow our own for goodness sake, but Cook is forever on the lookout for a bargain, even when it’s something we don’t need. I interrupted her and told her not to buy vegetables we didn’t need. Sometimes I can be quite authoritative.

Melissa telephoned. Apparently there’s someone telephoning around flogging vegetables and they’re not to be trusted. It seems that the vegetables are “hot”. I told her I already had the vegetable thing covered, and so the entire conversation was of little consequence.

Saturday, September 13^th

Distant revellers made enough noise last night and into the early hours to wake the dead and to keep the sleepy awake. I thought about taking the shotgun and finding them, but that would have been a chore. Slept later than usual this morning as a result, and my mood is not sunny. It’s a tad cloudy, like the weather.

Melissa telephoned. I told Cook it was her turn. Her subsequent report mentioned a sport quite early on, so was obviously going to be of no consequence, so I stopped listening.

Read a “Rumpole” book – they don’t take long- but I think I should return to Rabelais and Herodotus, from both of which I have taken a vacation and feel a sense of guilt accumulating somewhere in the back of my head. Or, as an alternative, I may begin “The Pilgrim’s Progress”, which I haven’t read since I was a baby. Occasionally I feel I need some spiritual support.

Sunday, September 14^th

In the afternoon I had the wireless on and listened to a very interesting programme about The Everlasting Brothers, a pop duet from the distant past I rather like. “Cathy’s a Clown” is a good song. I learned a lot about them that I didn’t know, which I think is tautological, since one cannot learn what one already knows.

Melissa telephoned. As usual, it was of no consequence. She says she’s signing up for an evening class in “Communication Arts”, whatever the hell that is or those are. Perhaps it’s about how to use the telephone.

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James Henderson (Gentleman)