Monday, September 16th
I wish it was of no consequence, but actually it is. I’m being urged by Algernon Tenderloin to go into town to attend a poetry reading later in the week. But it’s someone whose poems I loathe – I name no names. Tenderloin’s only been in the area a few days and already he’s being annoying. I’ll have to be ill on Thursday, because I’m not bloody going.
Jethro has been busy today, doing a big seasonal cleaning of the stables and outbuildings ready for the autumn and winter. I let him get on with it, even though he seems to make an extraordinary amount of noise when, as far as I can see, all that’s needed is some hefty sweeping. As if to complement his work and noise, Cook decided to do the same with the kitchen. I think these people just wanted to stop me having a quiet day. I had to get away from them so I went out, and spent a couple of hours in The Pigeon and Pie, a hostelry that does a decent lunch. (It’s not very popular with vegetarians for some reason.) They were still at it when I got back. Perhaps it’s National Kick-Up-A-Racket Day, and nobody told me.
Melissa telephoned. I was out.
At the end of a rather disjointed and disrupted day, albeit with a decent lunch, I indulged in Mahler and red wine after dinner this evening, the music loud and loud. Cook hates Mahler, but she got earfuls. I don’t care. This is my house.
Tuesday, September 17th
I haven’t been writing much lately, and can’t help feeling that my genius is on the verge of being unleashed again, with fresh strategies, renewed weaponry, and enhanced wit. But it’s no good trying to force it. It’ll come when it’s ready, or not at all if it doesn’t want to. And sometimes you have to go back to the great stuff to recharge the batteries, and make the everyday world go away for a bit so you can get back to the important work, to which end I’ve been wandering around yet again in Quiller-Couch’s “Oxford Book of English Poetry”, and today landed at random on
I have a mistress, for perfections rare
In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair,
Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;
Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice . . .
It’s of little consequence, but actually I don’t like that one much. I should probably have a more open mind, but if my mistress’s breath smelled like that I’d not be too pleased. I generally like my paramours to smell of flowers, or very expensive fragrances from quality perfumiers.
Cook came back from shopping in town full of herself, because she’d found a cookbook by Delia Smith in the Oxfam that has recipes in it for boar. Good ol’ Delia. She could probably cook Cook and make her delicious.
Melissa telephoned. She’s been known to smell good and bad over the years. Haven’t we all?
Thursday, September 19th
Tenderloin phoned to remind me about this evening’s poetry reading in town. I regretted to inform him that, sadly, unfortunately, regrettably, I was suffering from a sudden upset stomach and was having to spend a lot of time in the toilet.
Jethro says the carriage needs two new wheels before Winter arrives. I feigned interest and told him to attend to whatever is necessary. It’s of little consequence, but probably of appalling expense.
Melissa telephoned. She said she’d found some of my old letters that were very interesting, but had then burnt them. I’ve never been much of a letter writer, so I don’t really know what she’s referring to. Quite often I don’t understand what’s going on around me, and wonder if I might actually be someone else.
Friday, September 20th
Awoke in the night from a dream where a team of international researchers were examining my secret parts without my written consent. It took me ages to go back to sleep. I know dreams are not really of consequence, but they are, aren’t they, if you spend half the next day thinking about the one that woke you up in the night.
And I was thinking about it a lot, and felt below par all day. I know some so-called poets use their dreams in their poems, but mainly that’s because they don’t have enough imagination to think up stuff for themselves. Anyway, I just couldn’t really get going, and felt in my bones that a decent sleep would do me the world of good, but I didn’t feel sleepy, just weary. But I perked up later thanks to a decent dose of alcohol.
Melissa telephoned. She said she had just booked her annual flu jab. I wonder if life can be any more interesting . . .
Saturday, September 21st
A very long walk with Winnie this morning, which rather exhausted me, and I had a long nap after lunch as a result.
Cook concocted a boar pie for dinner. The recipe was out of the newly-acquired Delia book. It was interesting, but as a consequence we may not be having it again, because somehow I think she can’t count it as one of her successes, although neither of us could quite put our finger on exactly why, given that of late I ‘ve become rather fond of a bit of boar.
Melissa telephoned. She spoke with Cook, and what I overheard of their conversation was mainly about Tupperware. It appears that the Tupperware company is gone down the pan – or should I say “someone didn’t close the lid properly and now it’s all gone rotten”? Sometimes life is almost too much, don’t you think?
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James Henderson (Gentleman)
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