Monday, August 5th
Reading Herodotus this afternoon, and there’s this about some tribe or other:
“Among their customs, it is said that when a man falls sick, his closest companions kill him, because as they put it, their meat would be spoilt if he were allowed to waste away with disease. The invalid, in these circumstances, protests that there is nothing the matter with him – but to no purpose. His friends refuse to accept his protestations, kill him and hold a banquet. Should the sufferer be a woman, her woman friends deal with her in the same way. If anyone is lucky enough to live to an advanced age, he is offered in sacrifice before the banquet – this, however, rarely happens, because most of them will have had some disease or other before they get old, and will consequently have been killed by their friends.”
What larks!
It looks as if we shall either have to start selling eggs, or give them away. I’m going to go for the former. I’m not a charity. Our hens are very productive, and we probably have too many of them, but Jethro says having a lot is good because they’re sociable creatures. I don’t know how he would know. It’s of little consequence.
Melissa telephoned. She said she had been reading one of my old books of poetry, poems I wrote when we were together. Thank goodness she was speaking to Cook, and not to me.
Tuesday, August 6th
I had a letter from an old friend and in it he tells me that “poetry is not where it’s at”, although I’m unclear about where it’s at is. I’m pretty sure it’s of bugger all consequence, and I’m a very long way beyond worrying about what other people think.
Melissa telephoned, and told Cook she’s signed up for “keep fit” classes. Cook says she might go with her. Seriously? If she does, I hope they have a paramedic within easy reach.
A nice little piece in Herodotus where a northern country was described by travelling strangers as a place where the air was full of feathers, so much so that one could not see where one was going. The feathers were snow.
Wednesday, August 7th
Awake early (at 6.30) but felt alright, and even did a little bit of early writing. Some days in the morning I feel really lousy, and can’t get going. I don’t really understand those days, because I can feel almost unhealthily out of it, but usually by the time the evening comes I’m alright. Then the next day, like today, I feel good. Is it just days where I’m missing some essential ingredient? Am I getting old?
I mentioned this to Cook, and she thinks I should eat more fruit. I already eat quite a bit of fruit, so that wasn’t especially helpful. Perhaps I should have more sex. I could go for that . . . but it’s of little consequence, and never mind more sex: any sex of any kind is not at all easy to arrange.
Melissa telephoned. I stopped thinking about sex at that point.
Jethro has suggested we turn the South Paddock, which is quite large, into somewhere youngsters can ride ponies and practice some show jumping. He says we could make a fortune. Jethro is a bit of a would-be entrepreneur on the quiet. But I don’t need to make a fortune. I already have one, and I don’t relish having lots of children running around the place, or even vaguely near the place. Having them in the same county country is bad enough.
Thursday, August 8th
Cook says she’s decided against going to keep fit class on account of her hip and also she doesn’t really have the time. I think it’s really because she couldn’t find a leotard to fit her. It’s of no consequence – not to me, anyway – and I wish there was something more interesting to say about today.
Friday, August 9th
Awoke just before 6 from a very tiring dream, the details of which I recall clearly but will not transcribe here, because they’re distasteful. Wide awake, I got up, and by 8 I had done two crosswords, written a poem, listened to some Mahler, showered, had a half hour walk with Winnie, and read some Herodotus. That was almost a full day – before breakfast! In deference to Cook, I had fruit, although I had already had a bucket load of coffee.
By 9 I was tired enough to go back to bed, but in that direction ruin lay, so I battled against the overwhelming desire for a lie down.
An email from “a fan” says I should be out and about more, peddling my poetic wares. I told them that my wares-peddling days are over, and it’s enough for me now to bask in the small glory of occasional publication and adulation from a select few. It’s of little consequence, but it’s enough.
Melissa telephoned. Cook was under instruction to inform all callers that I was in conference.
Saturday, August 10th
Continuing with Herodotus: men with eyes in their chests, dog-headed men, and a couple of interesting marriage rituals: one, where a girl about to be married is taken to the king and if he fancies her she leaves him “no longer a maiden”, and another where after the wedding a party is thrown, and each of the male guests enjoy the bride. I wonder if old Herodotus made some of this stuff up for fun . . . I suppose it’s of not much consequence, not now, anyway. Those maidens, if what he said ’twere true, would almost certainly have disagreed.
Melissa telephoned. All thoughts of weddings flew from my mind.
Wandering around the vegetable garden this evening I noted that the new potatoes are ready for picking and the lettuce is in flower. The redcurrants and raspberries will soon be ready for digging up: I could see the leaves were turning brown, which is a sure sign the fruit is ripening. Was tempted to pluck a banana from the bush, but figured it would spoil my dinner, which was waiting for me when I got back indoors: steak, well-marinated in garlic and soy sauce, just the way I like it, with heaps of chips and a bottle of red plonk.
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James Henderson (Gentleman)
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