Monday, July 15th
Melissa telephoned. Apparently the national kickball team had a disappointing time last evening and she wanted to talk about it because she was awfully upset. I didn’t and I wasn’t, because it’s of no consequence as far as I’m concerned.
Cook is also full of the kickball, and I had to politely tell her that, actually, I don’t care for kickball, as a result of childhood trauma – another thing I don’t want to talk about.
Mrs. Jennings debuted today, and the entire house is shining as if it has been sprayed and is fresh out of the box. Everything smells of roses and lilies and another aromatic thing I’m unable to identify. The only place she hasn’t cleaned is the kitchen. That’s Cook’s domain, into which one trespasses on pain of death or insult. Even Jethro has had a thorough clean up, and I gather that the horses didn’t recognise him the first time he went into the stables after the operation.
I made the mistake of turning on the wireless for “The World at One” at lunchtime, and found myself listening to a special dispatch about kickball before I could make it to the OFF switch. There seems to be no escape from this plague. Fled to the woods with Winnie, and stayed there until I felt it safe to return home for dinner, although I approached with trepidation as Cook was bound to bring the whole thing up again. As a precaution, I made out to appear fully absorbed in concentration upon a book as she served, and I got away with it. It was toad in the hole. Lovely!
To bed early. I think I should be safe here.
Tuesday, July 16th
At breakfast, Cook asked if I’m enjoying the eggs. Well, yes, they’re eggs, though I could sometimes wish I had to eat fewer of them.
It’s of little consequence, but keeping a diary every day is sometimes a bit of a challenge, especially on days when nothing really happens, which is most days, to be honest, and some days I simply don’t do it. Or, on the other hand, there might be something on that day I don’t want entered into the record, because I’m no angel. Actually I’m a quiet, self-contained charmer with a fairly limited social life by choice. I know loads of people because of my wealth and land-owning status, but I choose not to mix with most of them because too many people are rather tedious and some are plainly horrible. But when the most exciting thing to happen in a day is cutting your toenails, well, is a diary really warranted? But I shall carry on, I think, because when I’m in the next world people will be eager to know how I got away with it.
Melissa telephoned. She does that.
I cut my toenails before going to bed.
Wednesday, July 17th
Read a neat little sonnet sequence by Samuel Daniel – “Beauty, Time, and Love”. He knocks most of today’s poetasters into a cocked hat, which really goes without saying.
Felt a bit erotic this morning so went for a long walk to work off some energy. I’m not sure it worked. A cold shower did the trick on my return, along with Cook having a visitor in for a chat who, I think, was one of the three witches from ‘Macbeth’, or possibly all three stuffed into one. I would much rather not have laid eyes on her. It’s of little consequence. Or is it? I may not sleep tonight.
Melissa telephoned. She said the lumberjacks are lumbering around her place and making lots of sawing noises, with the occasional cry of ‘Timber’.
Thursday, July 18th
Wide awake at 7 and a nice brisk early long walk with Winnie to the top of Hillocky Hill, where a good breeze was blowing. Sun gave way to cloud later.
from Rabelais: “. . .poets, who are under the protection of Apollo, when they are drawing near their latter end do ordinarily become prophets, and by the inspiration of that god sing sweetly in vaticinating things which are to come.” I had to look up “vaticinating”. But it’s good to know I shall one day be something of a prophet. I don’t know when that will be. It’s of little or no consequence, probably.
Melissa telephoned. I thought she might.
Looked through some writing today from 6 or 7 years ago, some published, much unpublished. There’s probably some treasure that could be pulled out from there but really I can’t be bothered. It strikes me as far too much work for too little return. And when I say “too little return” I mean “none”.
Friday, July 19th
It’s very hot. Spent the afternoon in the hammock in the shade under the boughs of the something tree, reading Samuel Daniel when I wasn’t falling asleep, and wondered about writing a series of sonnets. I probably won’t.
Melissa telephoned. This would normally be of absolutely no consequence, but she says she has taken to living au naturelle when indoors and when it’s this hot, and she giggled a lot. I’m trying not to have too many mental images of it, and I’ve also taken some sleeping pills. I’m thankful she told me, and not Cook. I don’t want her getting any ideas. Cook in the nip would be more than I could take.
Sunday, July 21st
I really should write about what happened yesterday but I don’t think I can summon up the courage. That it involved chickens, and Cook and Jethro almost coming to blows, is about as far as I can go with it. The details are too grim to relate. The good news is that somehow or other they patched things up, and demolished a bottle of my sherry between them in the evening. And today Cook has invited Jethro into the kitchen for elevenses – a thing hitherto unheard of, because Cook has always rather frowned upon his personal hygiene, though he’s currently a bit cleaner thanks to Mrs. Jennings, though I think he’s already showing signs of relapsing. I don’t really care, as long as she makes sure he doesn’t go near anything I might eat.
Oh, Melissa telephoned. I wasn’t here. It’s of no consequence.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)
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