Tuesday, July 23rd
I had to go to the doctor today for a blood test. It’s of not much consequence – I hope). I don’t like needles being stuck into me, or anything else for that matter, but the nurse was very nice, and she only needed 3 stabs at my arm before she found a way in. I’m not going to say what the test was for, because I prefer to remain anonymous.
On the way home I passed Bumpy Wainright, who appeared to be asleep under a tree by the side of the road. I think he’s been drinking too much of late. At least, I think that’s what it is. Of course, he might have been dead, but let’s hope not.
Melissa telephoned. She says she’ s got kittens that need a home, and do I want one or perhaps two? I’m tempted, and said I’d think about it. I like fluffy things.
Wednesday, July 24th
Bumpy is still alive, as evidenced by the fact that he dropped in today and asked if he could borrow Jethro to trim his hedge. I made no mention of seeing him comatose yesterday. I think that’s the best way of dealing with most things: just don’t talk about them. Most things are of little or no consequence, or so it usually seems.
Browsing my bookshelves this morning – they are extensive, and contain many more books than ever I have read – my eye fell upon the poems of John Wilmot, the 2nd Earl of Rochester – and I haven’t read him for ages. So I betook him to an armchair for a while. He’s so readable:
Fair Cloris in a pigsty lay,
Her tender herd lay be her.
She slept; in murmuring gruntlings they,
Complaining of the scorching day,
Her slumbers thus inspire.
She dreamed . . .
This may not strike the casual reader as being up to much, but read on and fair Cloris dreams of being assailed (well, rather more than assailed . . . ) by a swain (“he pursues her to the cave / And throws himself upon her”) and she wakes up frightened, but very much in need of being physically satisfied, probably because the swain didn’t get to finish what he’d started, or he did finish but it was only a dream. Whichever it was, I shall say no more, other than that I fully understand how sometimes one has to do things for oneself. I have said enough.
Rochester is mainly thought of today as being lewd and sweary, but he’s much more than that. For instance, “Upon Nothing” is a really cool and interesting poem. It’s about Nothing.
Melissa telephoned. She asked me again if I wanted a kitten or two. I said Yes. Why the hell not? But I don’t want to go to get them, and I don’t want her coming here. I shall send Cook, or Jethro. Or both of them.
Thursday, July 25th
I have taken delivery of kittens. Two. One male, one female, in the interests of balance and gender equality. Winnie, the sweetheart, sniffed them a bit, gave them both a lick, and then sauntered off to her bed for a nap. They are currently unnamed. I’ve been thinking about it: I considered calling the male Jeoffrey, after Christopher Smart:
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffrey
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him (etc.)
but I’m not so sure. As Tom Eliot said, “The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter.” I’m giving serious time and thought to Jerrie and Teazer, after Eliot’s Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer, but I’m going to sleep on it. I have my best ideas when I’m asleep. It’s of no little consequence.
Melissa telephoned to ask if the kittens are OK.
Friday, July 26th
Cook says the kittens are an absolute delight, but she’s having trouble keeping them off her kitchen work surfaces. I’m sure she can train them if she puts her mind to it.
Melissa telephoned to ask if the kittens are OK. Yes, they are. Don’t keep bloody asking.
Jethro has been to Bumpy’s to trim his hedge. Needless to say, it’s of no consequence, and less interest.
The kittens have been named Rumple and Teazer. I couldn’t go with the Mungojerrie thing because of that awful song from history about the summertime.
Cook asked if she could serve dinner early this evening because she wants to watch the opening of the Olympics on the TV in her room and it starts at around 6 and apparently goes on until late. I don’t mind, as long as the sport doesn’t come anywhere near me – even though dining before 6 will be more like a late lunch, or tea.
Napped in the hammock under the tree this afternoon. Thoroughly pleasant weather.
Saturday, July 27th
Turned on the wireless after breakfast and was forced to tune into Radio 3 to get away from the endless sporting chatter. Actually I like Radio 3, but I also like the chatter on Radio 4 – at least, I like it when it’s interesting. Heard some very pleasing piano by I have no idea who, which is a shame because it was good, and I would like to hear it again. I should have been paying more attention.
Not much is happening in this diary, is it? It’s of little or no consequence. My not much is more interesting than most people’s lots, at least that’s how it seems inside my head box. And who knows? Perhaps before too long I may find myself bewitched by a lady of the female gender, because that’s when things have been known to get out of hand, for me if not for you, Dear Reader of The Future.
Melissa telephoned. Whatever.
Sunday, July 28th
I have to say the old place is sparklingly clean since the advent of Mrs. Jennings. In fact, I’m so keen to keep it like this that the evening before she comes I go around making a bit of a mess so she feels needed and that she’s doing some good in the world. People like to think they are doing good in the world – at least, people like Mrs. Jennings do. Personally I couldn’t give a damn. Anyway, now on a Sunday before I go to bed I’m going to make sure she’s got something to do tomorrow. I’ve left cigar ash liberally sprinkled around, and earlier I made sure my boots left their mark after today’s walk with Winnie. It don’t take long, and is of little consequence. Some people go to church, which is of even less.
Melissa telephoned. She wanted to ask Cook something about sport, so it’s a good job Cook answered the phone. She’s the expert.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)
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