Monday, June 10th
Cook had her ladies in to celebrate and salivate over the new kitchen. I made sure to get out of the house before they arrived, and took the carriage out for a lengthy ride in the countryside, with Winnie, my trusty lurcher-cross and best friend, riding shotgun. Very pleasant in the sunshine, and even when some cloud built up and a few drops of rain fell it didn’t spoil the jaunt. Had lunch at The Severed Arms. There was a rather attractive barmaid there who flirted a little. It was of no consequence. Even if a serious dalliance were on the cards it would be much too far to travel. I operate within strictly defined limits.
To be on the safe side did not return home until well after Cook’s ladies were due to leave. It turned out that dinner was late owing to Cook being a little the worse for wear after too much sherry, and all she served up was yesterday’s reheated leftovers – but venison is venison is venison.
Melissa telephoned to tell Cook she was sorry not to have attended the kitchen event, but she got the date wrong in her diary.
Have decided to re-read Rabelais. I feel the need of some serious enjoyment.
Tuesday, June 11th
Melissa telephoned while I was at breakfast. That’s too early. It’s happened before, and I’ve told her, but it’s like water chucked over a duck’s head. I suppose it’s of little consequence, but all the same . . . One should be able to breakfast in peace.
A chap I know a bit has had his latest “slim volume” shortlisted for some prize or other. I forget what it’s called. I haven’t read it, although it’s here somewhere. I’m supposed to be reviewing it, but can’t be bothered. I read a couple of poems from it in a magazine, and my only memory of those is that they were memorable for their forgettability. Sometimes I wonder if my reading of great literature –Rabelais, Shelley, Wodehouse – means I’m unfair to the chaps who are alive and writing now, and who barely deserve to share the same paragraph in a gentleman’s diary. But it’s not something I wonder very often, to be honest.
Wandered down to the brook, and was mesmerized by the sound of the running water, and how it looked in the dappling sunlight. It was one of those days. I don’t visit the brook very often, mainly because most of the time there’s barely any water in it, but all the rain we’ve had has turned it into a decent waterway, although I suppose it will dry up again soon. That’s OK. I wouldn’t want any barges barging in. Haha! I don’t often make jokes.
Thursday, June 13th
Lunch with Octavia Burlington at The Missing Personality was nice enough, but it didn’t last long because she had a dental appointment to go to, which she did not tell me about until we were in the pub, and which I thought was rather odd. Even less pleasing was her saying she has taken to writing poems, and would I cast my experienced eye over them and, worse, then perhaps I could – and I quote – “help to get them published.” That’s blown any chances of a relationship quite out of the water. Of course, I said I ‘d be happy to look at a few, because I’m not quite a complete bastard.
Melissa telephoned and told me there were people in the area calling at houses claiming to be looking for someone, when in fact they were “casing the joint”. It’s of little consequence, and good luck to them is what I say. This place is secure, what with the CCTV, alarm systems, man-traps, and Cook.
Friday, June 14th
I gather there’s an international sporting tournament beginning today. I don’t care. They’re probably all cheating anyway, plus a lot of people will get drunk and go to the toilet on traffic islands and in shop doorways, both of which activities are sports-related.
Received an email from people purporting to be editors of a new poetry magazine. They are calling it “The Bum’s Rush” – and they have asked me (a) if I would consider helping to fund it (they obviously know I’m not short of a few bob) (b) if I’d like to take out a “premium subscription” (the premium benefits of which don’t seem to add up to much), and finally (c) to contribute some poems “for their consideration” because they admire my work. I can understand the admiration, but if they admire it why are they only going to “consider” it? And what sort of title for a serious journal is “The Bum’s Rush”, for God’s sake? I’ve thought about telling them where to stick their bum’s rush, but decided instead to ignore them. They are of less than no consequence.
Melissa telephoned to say she has a couple of spare flags of St. George, and if I want them I can have them to hang them at my gate to show my support for England at the kickball competition. I told her I’m allergic to flags.
Saturday, June 15th
Octavia has emailed me a dozen poems. A quick scan reveals that one of them is dedicated to Rishi Sunak. Crikey. I shall have to gird quite a lot of my loins before I tackle them.
Melissa telephoned to tell me it’s the weekend, and there’s another car boot tomorrow.
In the afternoon I contrived to pour some scalding hot tea on to my hand. That was a good idea.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)
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