Monday, October 28th
Sound of some workmen working somewhere making more noise than was necessary. Peace disturbed, which is not unusual.
Algernon Tenderloin parachuted in to tell me that our mutual acquaintance Larry Thickset has won a prestigious poetry prize worth loads of money. He thinks I’ll be interested, because “Thicko” (as I like to call him) once announced to anyone listening that I’d been a great influence upon his work insofar as I’d shown him “how not to do it”. I won’t say that Tenderloin’s news rather soured my day, but I needed a very long walk with Winnie beyond Hillocky Hill, and as far as He Would If He Could Wood to convince my brain to think of cheerier things. It’s not the money I begrudge – I already have loads of that, so it’s of no consequence. It’s not the praise I begrudge – those prize things are largely publisher and buddy-buddy driven. No. It’s the groupies I begrudge. (Never forsake irony, that’s my motto.)
Some rather dirty-looking and ill-dressed children dropped by this afternoon Trick or Treating. And it’s not even Halloween yet! Plus it was the afternoon, and daylight. They were just trying it on, the little buggers, and I duly threatened them with police and legal action if they didn’t fuck off smartish. The language they used! That’s no way to speak to your elders and much-betters!
Melissa telephoned. Do I want to go to a Halloween party on Thursday? As if!
Tuesday, October 29th
Lingered abed later than usual in the morning, and then had to endure Cook grumbling about how devilled kidneys don’t like to be kept waiting. It’s the kind of start to the day money can’t buy, although come to think of it money did buy it. I may have to cross that bit out, even though it’s of little consequence.
Lunched at The Broken Promise, where the landlady, Mrs. Turtill, has a smile for everyone. She’s about 95 years old, and doesn’t look a day over 95. The beer there is actually not very good. I think they water it down. I’m not sure what with.
Melissa telephoned. She said the clocks go back this weekend. I know they do.
Sitting at the desk this afternoon gazing from the window and in the cloud-heavy sky there’s some cloud that’s drifting at a fair rate from roughly north to south, and it’s like puffs of smoke in a Red Indian’s smoke signal from the cowboy comics of my childhood, the individual cloud puffs chasing after one another at a rate of knots, while the other heavier clouds in the sky stay where they are, a grey backdrop to the movement. I was in a reflective mood, and read some Hölderlin:
Often I’ve lost you the golden tranquillity
Of Heaven, yours by nature, and what you have had
From me are many of life’s
More secret and deeper sorrows.
Forget them now and forgive me and like the cloud
Over the peaceful moon there I shall pass and you
Will be what you were and shine
In your beauty, beloved light.
Don’t ask what brought this mood on.
Wednesday, October 30th
At breakfast, among the Corn Flakes, came across a little bit of Kierkegaard, who (apart from being tricky to spell) said that people correspond to parts of speech. “How many people are merely adjectives, interjections, adverbs; and how few are substantives, verbs, etc. . . .There are people whose position in life is that of the interjection, without influence in the sentence.” I don’t want smart-arse with my Corn Flakes every day, but occasionally it’s alright.
I didn’t sleep very well. High winds were making a gate somewhere nearby swing around and creak and bang about, and woke me at around 5. This morning I told Jethro to take a look around and see if he could find the culprit and mete out an appropriate punishment and then oil and shut the bloody thing.
Cook has reminded me it’s pheasant season, and should she plan for the occasional weekend bird? I don’t like the idea of shooting innocent birds, although they taste pretty damn fine. I told her to stick to birds from the butcher’s, and to leave her shotgun where it is.
Melissa telephoned. It seems there are some cheap pheasants available from the back of a van doing the rounds. It’s of medium consequence, unless you happen to be a pheasant.
Thursday, October 31
Oh, the dreaded Halloween. Dreaded not because it’s scary but because people go stupid and expect you to join in with the nonsensical nonsense. When I was a child Halloween barely existed in this country, then we imported it from the USA as if we didn’t already have enough other Americanisms we could well do without, like hamburgers.
Cook and Jethro have been busy today gathering and storing apples, eaters and cookers, as we have what Cook describes as a glut and Jethro describes (out of Cook’s hearing) as “fucking loads”. Cook asked my permission to invite some people to come and help themselves to any leftovers and windfalls should there be any when they’ve finished. I’m dubious. The last time she did that we were swamped by folk of doubtful origin who seemed to think they’d been invited to help themselves to anything they fancied in the vegetable garden. Jethro had to wield his musket at them to chase them off.
Melissa telephoned. I think I heard Cook tell her there were apples available.
A seagull landed on the windowsill near to my desk a moment ago. We’re many miles from the sea. It’s of little or no consequence, I suppose, unless you happen to be that seagull, or a close relative of it.
Saturday, November 2nd
As a result of rising late I dressed even later. The Saturday crossword took a while, and the morning was gone before I knew it, but that’s of no consequence and I don’t know why I mention it.
Melissa telephoned. One of her cats has been injured and has had to go to the vet for an operation on an eye. She was rather upset, and I assume so was the cat.
I’ve been reading Henry Green, whose novels I’m coming to love more and more as I read and re-read them, although I still haven’t quite figured out how he manages to get away with sounding sometimes as if he doesn’t have a clue what’s happening in his own book. But anyway, I finished “Loving” last night, and I thoroughly agree with the character Raunce’s advice about making sure you’ve cleaned your teeth before having anything to do with a woman.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)
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