Wednesday, September 10th
I have found out why the publisher chap who had commissioned me to put together a “Collected Poems” has seemed to go cold of late, taking an age to reply to emails, and the telephone number I have for him being impossible to reach – “constantly engaged” has been replaced by “completely unobtainable”. It appears that the gentleman concerned – actually, “gentleman” is not the right word, since using it in connection with this chap threatens to bring the word into disrepute – let me use something else: how about “reptile”? Innocent until proven otherwise, I suppose, but also no smoke without fire, so Yes, that will do. It appears that the reptile concerned has been in serious discussions of late with his local constabulary regarding his social and “romantic” activities, and about what they have found lurking on his computer. Need I say more? I am a little surprised, because I thought his young mistress would have kept him happy enough, but evidently his interests are more wide-ranging, if what we hear is true. This has not made the national news, because sadly these kinds of things seem to happen almost every day or week, and too often barely produce a raised eyebrow – but if you are in the north-east of the country and consume local news you may know of whom I write. This apparent vermin has in the past claimed to be a part of the regional poetic avant-garde; I suppose that’s one way of explaining his apparent deviant proclivities. Enough said, I think, except that I am somewhat dismayed about the fate of my “Collected Poems”, although I am glad all this has come to light before his name and mine were irrevocably linked in print. But perhaps now that people know I am in the process of gathering my years of genius together another enterprising publisher will pick up the literary baton. If you read this, Mr (or Mrs., Miss, or Ms.) Enterprising Publisher, you know where to find me. If you have your head in a bucket and do not know, then please contact the handsome Editor of this splendid journal, who will be more than happy to act as my personal mailbox and forward any communication. I do not think he has much else to do.
Thursday, September 11th
Cook informed me today that she has found a very good sourdough bread in the local Co-op, and that we will be having that in future, instead of the usual Warburtons Toastie White. I’m sorry, but Cook is only a cook, and while she does a very good job I am not at all sure that it’s her place to make such serious decisions without consulting her master. Also, from what I have heard and read, this sourdough stuff is trendy, and I am not at all comfortable with eating trendy. I am afraid she and I had something of an argument, and I really do not enjoy arguments, especially when they are pointless, and this one was completely pointless because (a) I was right and (b) we would inevitably come to a compromise, insofar as I agreed to try it but the Toastie would remain in the larder, an always to-hand alternative.
As if that was not enough to dampen my already damp spirits, I have had a toothache since yesterday evening, and have had more Ibuprofen tablets in the last 12 hours than is probably good for me. I think if I use my willpower (which is legendary) and the strongest painkillers I can lay my hands on, then I can persuade the pain to go away. I sent Jethro to the pharmacy, and I am waiting for him to come back even as we speak. He’s been gone a long time; he has probably got lost.
I don’t know why it took him 4 hours, when the pharmacy is only a 10 minute bus ride away, but Jethro eventually returned with a pack of Nurofen, which I doubt is any stronger than what I have already been taking. Perhaps if I combine them with enough decent Scotch it will do the trick.
Friday, September 12th
I slept heavily and well, thanks to painkillers and alcohol. There is no sign of the toothache this morning. Thank the Lord for modern pharmaceuticals and old-fashioned liquor!
I am sorry to say my brightened mood was soon dimmed. No sooner does the sun come out than storm clouds appear as if from nowhere, and we are dumped back into gloom. My typewriter, upon which I compose my acts of genius, because frankly I cannot abide the computer keyboard and only use it when I have no choice . . . as I was saying, my typewriter has broken down. The carriage refuses to do what it should (I don’t know what the correct verb is). The whole thing seems to have seized up. I have telephoned my tame man who comes once a year to give it a once-over, but I was told by a woman who I assume is his wife or partner or, at a stretch, his concubine, that he is away attending a conference in Glasgow. Do typewriter maintenance men have conferences? I have no idea, but he is not due back until Monday. Any act of genius that might have been forthcoming, that might have poked its brilliant little head out from the recesses of my mind, has well and truly gone back indoors, and I have no choice but to be almost ordinary until I feel the creative itch again. I am sorry to say that itch does not appear quite as often these days as once it did, but once a genius always a genius, and I am not disheartened. Not much, anyway.
Sunday, September 14th
To add to the general sense of not-wellbeing currently washing over my life in the last few days, Jethro has hung a St. George’s cross from the gable end of the stables. As futile gestures go it’s very futile, because nobody will see it unless they actually go to the stables, and nobody does, except Jethro and myself. But I’ve made him take it down, because I don’t want any of that nonsense on my property. I’ve always known Jethro doesn’t much like foreigners. I’ve heard him moaning when he comes back from the local fish and chip shop, complaining about how “fish’n’chips is English, for Chrissake!” Which is all very well, as far as it goes, but the people who own and run that chippie are Welsh.
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James Henderson
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