Monday, November 18th
Cold this morning. Hot breakfast please, Cook!
Melissa telephoned She says it’ll snow this week. Her friend, who she says is psychic and can see into the future, has told her it’s definite. I’m sure her friend’s right, and that it will snow, somewhere. But it’s of little consequence and I don’t care if it do or it don’t. I like snow.
Jethro had a huge bonfire this afternoon – I assume it was to warm himself up – most of which must have been damp autumn leaves, because the house was engulfed by smoke for ages, and I can still smell it now. Words were exchanged between master and servant, even though master knew it was pointless, and servant was only pretending to listen.
Perhaps inspired by the bonfire, Cook served some kind of smoked fish for dinner. At least, I think it was fish: it tasted of smoke.
Wednesday, November 20th
I’ve been lax, which is not altogether unusual, and usually of minor or no consequence. I started to read Pope’s “The Dunciad” a while back, I forget why, but I was distracted (quite easily, as it turns out) by something flimsy (I forget what) and then contrived (sic) to mislay the book. I found it today, and guiltily resumed my reading – but, frankly, it’s quite tough going, mainly because it’s full of names of writers that Pope is having a go at, and sometimes you have to hang in there by the fingertips , although pleasing things are always likely to appear, e.g.
While pensive poets painful vigils keep,
Sleepless themselves to give their readers sleep
But I finished the first three parts, then decided I could retire from the field of battle with honour, and since I had the book in my hands turned to “The Rape of the Lock”, which is much more accessible, and also takes only an hour or so to read (unless you happen to nod off in the middle of it, in which case it can take a bit longer). These days probably its most famous lines are about a cup of tea:
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,
While China’s earth receives the smoking tide
Needless to say, when I reached that point, I broke off and made myself a cuppa . . . ‘Tis a pity, methinks, that you don’t see too many modern-day bards cranking out a mock epic, one reason being that a reader’s attention span nowadays is probably not up to the challenge of reading anything longer than something short. Another reason might be that the bards aren’t capable . . .
Melissa telephoned. There’s some kind of open house barbecue at her place on Saturday evening to which I’m invited. It sounds awful. And a barbecue at this time of year? When she’s expecting snow? But I was caught a bit on the hop, and I’ll have to think of an excuse by the end of the week, or I shall have to go.
Thursday, November 21st
I’ve had to have a chap in to give my typewriter an overhaul. (Yes, I use a typewriter for my poem writing. I’m old school. And works of genius look better when they’re typed up with a ribbon that’s more or less inkless.) My beloved Imperial 70 has a couple of keys that stick and it needed a thorough clean and general tender loving care. It gets a lot of bashing from a not very delicate-touch typer, and I never cover it, so general dust and debris (crumbs, insects, expletives) gather in its insides. The typewriter chappie was very impressed that I use such a fine machine; apparently a lot of people these days use electronic typewriters or food word processors that have the personality of pre-cast concrete car parks – his words.
After typewriter chappie had left, Cook told me she thinks she knows his mother. Or, to be more precise, knew. She said she was a lady of somewhat ill-repute, fond of the gentlemen. But she added the caveat that she was not sure if it was the same woman, which rendered the entire conversation more or less pointless. Not an unusual event, to be honest.
Incidentally, the typewriter now writes like a dream, smooth as silk, fairly humming along. He replaced the ribbon, which I suppose he felt obliged to do. Oh well . . . Genius is genius, even with a pristine and inky ribbon. I might write a poem or two, if I can be bothered.
Melissa telephoned. It’s of no consequence because I wasn’t awake. Why does she call so early? Or so late?
Saturday, November 23rd
Melissa telephoned. I was mid-breakfast, but Cook had been put on high alert (with the appropriate small bonus to her pay packet). But apparently it was to say that the social thing this evening is cancelled because of bad weather. For some reason Cook trotted out the illness story anyway. Never mind, and Oh dear, but I do seem to be one of the most unhealthy of poets, abed and feeling “dreadful low”, and “don’t want to eat nothing”, or so the narrative goes.
Fortunately I was well enough to polish off a good rump steak and bottle of red vino in the evening, to the accompaniment of some equally tasty Gustave Fauré and a smattering of P. G. Wodehouse. I’m sure I’ll be back to full health tomorrow morning. These 24- or 48-hour bugs I seem prone to are of no consequence in health terms, but I have to be careful. If I have too many, people might begin to think I’m faking it.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)