THE DIARY OF A GENTLEMAN-POET

Monday, July 29th

Had a visit today from Alec Timmins, who I have not seen for more than a long time owing to his living somewhere other than convenient. We had coffee and then walked with Winnie, surveying my extensive landowning and venturing as far as The Leafy Bottom Inn, in the village of Leafy Bottom, where the barmaids are all over 60 and slow, and the beer is rather fine, and the lunches basic but enjoyably filling. Alec is a good writer, and we exchanged grammar gossip and news about different kinds of ink. Not much time for anything else today, since the visit took up a few hours in the meat of the day.

Speaking of meat, Cook served cold chicken and salad for dinner, which was simple and tasty. She said it was leftover chicken, but I don’t recall having the hot version of it. I suppose it’s of no consequence. Or is it?

Mrs. Jennings was in the house today, making everything sparkle. Even things that don’t naturally sparkle take on a sparkly aspect once she’s had a word with them. She doesn’t seem overjoyed by the presence of kittens, however.

Melissa telephoned. I was out, or Cook said I was.

Tuesday, July 30th

One of the hottest days of the year. Jethro decided to upheaval the stables, if upheaval is a verb, and there has been something of a commotion and turmoil outside for hours. I found myself dragged in to keep the horses company, and to help them cope with the trauma of having their homes turned upside down while a madman cleaned out and rearranged the furniture and put their books and magazines in order. Fortunately, horses are calm and understanding creatures, not like people, and they were alright most of the time. I think they particularly enjoyed being strolled down to the stream with Winnie, and drinking from Mother Nature’s natural water supply instead of from a trough. Horses and dog splashed around like children splashing around.

All of that work and stuff meant I was outside a lot of the time with the animals for company. Good. I can’t stand all the hubbub people get up to, most of which is annoying and of very little consequence. The sun was pretty hot, but I always use copious amounts of sun cream, even when I’m indoors. I like the smell.

By the time evening came I was exhausted from all the work Jethro had been doing, and after a pleasant something or other from Cook and most of a bottle of red, the last few hours of the day were spent in my favourite armchair with Herodotus and his Histories.

Melissa telephoned. At least, I assume she did. Cook must have dealt with her.

Wednesday, July 31st

Awoke at 4.30, quite hot, slept again until 7.30, during which time I had a most peculiar and rather exhausting dream which, bewilderingly, featured Donald Trump hiding in a box. Don’t ask me . . . I often wish there was a pill we could take that would make dreaming impossible. I mean, sleep is supposed to be relaxing and restorative, not tiring.

Received in the post a new slim volume of poetry from someone I almost know. It’s alright, but far too literary: it’s aimed at a bookish, knowledgeable, intellectual, “in-the-know” audience, and while it will surely enjoy success in that arena I’m not at all sure it’s an arena of consequence. In fact, it’s of bugger all consequence, unless one is concerned about that kind of success.

Melissa telephoned. She wanted to know if I wanted a baby goat. I don’t.

Thursday, August 1st

August!  Still hot, but not quite as hot as yesterday, and even a little shower of summery Jesus’s tears at breakfast time. And thunderstorms predicted! But it’s alright, I like thunderstorms, and it brightened up as the morning progressed and it was fine for a wander to The Frisky Farmhand and a pub lunch, with Winnie as company. She had some cheese and onion crisps, her favourite.

Melissa telephoned, and Cook was deep in conversation with her when I got home from my walk. I think they were talking about rabbits. It’s surely of no consequence.

An email from  . . . Oh, who cares? Why do people think I’m interested in attending conferences for a load of academics with whom I have nothing in common. I know there’s money involved, but I already have money and I’m not desperate to get any more if it means doing something tedious. I think if those conferences were still all about getting drunk and having carefree sex with someone you may never see again then perhaps I’d give it a go, but this is not the 1960s, and all academics do these days is complain about the amount of work they have to do outside of the classroom. I know. I have friends who exactly fit that description.

Torrential rain during the evening, but not the expected thunderstorm, which was a disappointment.

Friday, August 2nd

I’ve had a letter from a vague acquaintance, a poet I shall not name here, who says he’s applying to be poet-in-residence at his local football club, and could I please give him a reference. I wish it was a joke, but it isn’t. I’m declining the request as politely as possible, even though a football stadium is not a bad place for his poems to be. They deserve to be kicked around or obscenely abused by drunken louts. It’s of no consequence. No consequence at all.

Melissa telephoned. Yes, the kittens are fine. Thanks for asking.

Saturday, August 3rd

Sleep has been a bit tricky this week, owing to the overly warm nights, and I’m feeling a bit the worse for wear. I suppose it’s of not much consequence. Consequently, I determined to have a quiet day today reading and doing the Prize crossword, a decision facilitated by it being cloudy and occasionally raining. The crossword turned out to be ultra-difficult, and will still be around tomorrow.

Melissa telephoned. Cook was under instruction to take all calls and say I was away for the weekend. I said she could decide upon the exact untrue location, but to make it at least vaguely plausible.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)

 

 

 

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