THE DIARY OF A GENTLEMAN-POET

Monday, December 2^nd

Melissa telephoned. Cook took the call because I was asleep.

After lunch my accountant telephoned to tell me he’s been checking through what he calls “the books” (they’re not what I call books) and he thinks I should perhaps move a few investments here and there for a better return, and he needs my approval. I told him to do whatever he thinks fit, which is what I always tell him. Really it was hardly worth the telephone call. But he’s an accountant, and wholly devoid of poetry. I’m not at all concerned because the whole matter is of little or no consequence to someone who nods off as soon as anyone begins to discuss finance, which is yours truly to a T.

Algernon Tenderloin also telephoned (I might have to leave the bloody thing off the hook sometimes; it never stops ringing!) and asked if I would like to accompany him to a recitation of poetry this evening. He said it would be great. Unfortunately I had to decline, on the grounds of I didn’t want to go. Tenderloin claims the poet who will be on show is “tremendous” – his word – but he seriously isn’t.

Tuesday, December 3^rd

This is a bit disturbing, and I don’t really want to mention this in my diary, but something has occurred (I refrain from details, but let’s just say that the bathroom was involved) and I have need of a doctor. Of course, seeing one’s doctor is not something one can do at the drop of a hat these days. Once upon a time a telephone call would bring him (or her) to your doorstep fairly smartish; now I don’t know if  they ever leave their surgery, and it’s a good idea to plan any health issues as far in advance as possible. Anyway, since I’m unable to see anyone for a week I have at least secured a telephone consultation for tomorrow morning. I don’t know if this is of consequence or not. I hope the latter.

Melissa telephoned. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to talk to her, and Cook stepped in.

Wednesday, December 4^th

An hour after the appointed time a doctor (not my doctor, but a doctor – or someone who said he was a doctor) called and we chatted and it seems that my symptoms don’t necessarily suggest a serious issue, and he told me that what I told him about is quite common and very likely to clear up in a day or two. If it doesn’t I should get back in touch. I’m not wholly convinced, but I suppose I just have to hang in there like a brave little soldier and see what happens.

Melissa telephoned. I was reported as being out.

I needed a bit of cheering, so turned to some comfort reading after lunch:

“Shortly before midnight, near the landing-stage
If a dishevelled woman follows you, pay no attention.
It’s the blue. You need fear nothing of the blue.
There’ll be a tall blond vase in a tree.
The spire of the village of melted colors
Will be your landmark. Take it easy,
Remember. The dark geyser that hurls fern-tips towards the sky
Greets you.”

Not much else to say today, really, because I’m somewhat on a ‘low’ setting, unconvinced that all is well with my inner workings until I get official confirmation. I worry sometimes about my health as I age, which is a bit depressing to write down, so I might cross it out later. All of this is probably of debatable consequence.

Thursday, December 5^th

Signs this morning that I might be alright, and not dying. The thing that set alarm bells ringing seems to have gone away, but I’m not counting those chickens just yet.

It’s chilly today – “no day to walk, but scurry” as Swift once put it – and both I and Winnie were pretty happy to get back indoors after our daily dose of fresh air. She made a beeline for the hearth rug, in front of the roaring log fire, and I followed her.

Melissa telephoned. It was of no consequence, again, and I was out, again.

Saturday, December 7^th

I’m feeling a but sprightlier in my head today, and I scribbled a quick Christmas poem and I’m thinking of sending it out on this year’s Christmas cards:

I don’t think much of Christmas
Or of this time of year
I know I should be jolly
And send out Christmas cheer
But frankly it’s all tedious
So I stay locked in my room
Ignoring everyone I know
And enjoying the wintry gloom

I don’t know if it’ll go down very well. I shall have to think on’t.

Melissa telephoned. She says she visited Santa’s grotto in town today. It seems a bit early for that kind of thing, and I make no mention of her age.

I’ve reached the evening of a day in which very little occurred, and what did occur was of negative consequence and therefore not really worth writing about. Frankly, most occurrences are an inconvenience and I would be happy and prefer it if nothing at all happened to disturb me. Of course, occurrence-free days would render a diary absolutely pointless, but that would be fine because then I wouldn’t have to keep a diary and I could just have a nap in front of the fire in winter and in a deckchair in the sun on the two days of summer. On the other hand, I can’t ignore the fact that I’m a very interesting person, my poems are genius gems, and even when I’m not doing anything I’m remarkably intriguing.

By the way, this Graham’s 40 Year Old Tawny I’ve been putting away all evening is very fine (it should be at the price), and it’s sitting comfortably atop the red plonk I had with dinner. I can’t remember what dinner was, but it was also damn fine, I think.

Sunday, December 8^th

I had a bit of a headache this morning when I woke up, but it was of no consequence and, as it happens, far from unusual. I often feel a bit heavy-headed in the morning.

Melissa telephoned. I let it ring. And ring. I was curled up in front of the fire with Winnie stretched out at my feet and a good book on my lap which I didn’t open because I preferred to drop off to sleep. It’s what Sundays are for.

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James Henderson (Gentleman)

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