The Diary of a Nobody

Being the modern day record of Charles Pooter VI -
direct descendant of the 19th Century original

Saturday, May 30, 2009

We played “Consequences” again tonight. Not quite as funny as yesterday, largely because Gowing got a bit lewd and overstepped the mark a number of times.

Friday, May 29, 2009

Everything’s happily back on track this past week. Carrie’s returned, Gowing and Cummings have been popping in, and with the warmer evenings, we’ve sat out on the decking ’til fairly late a couple of times with the patio heater on. This evening, we were like a pack of kids and played “Consequences”. It’s a good game.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Left the shirts at Johnson’s. I said “I’m ’fraid they’re frayed”. Without a ghost of a smile the guy said “It’s bound to happen”. Some people haven’t got any sense of humour at all.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Carrie brought down some of my shirts and suggested I take them to Johnson’s to get them repaired because the cuffs were a bit frayed. Without missing a beat, I said “I’m frayed they are”. How we hooted at that one! I didn’t think we’d stop. At the station, I told the guy on the platform about the “frayed” shirts, and he laughed out loud. They enjoyed the joke at work as well.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Brilliant. Carrie’s back, looking really well, bar a bit of sunburn on her nose.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

I got a peculiar e-mail from Gowing, saying “Offended? No way. I thought you were offended with me because I lost my temper. Anyway, I discovered it wasn’t my uncle’s umbrella after all. Just a cheap one I’d got down at Primark. Thanks for the present all the same – much appreciated”.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

I got a new golf umbrella, with special vents so you could use it in the wind . It cost £25 (I’ll tell Carrie it was £15). I left it in Gowing’s porch with a note by way of apology.

Monday, May 18, 2009

The last week or so has been really boring. Carrie’s been away at Annie’s in Beckenham. Cummings is away. Gowing (presumably) is offended and still not talking to me because of the stencils on the umbrella.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Really fed up. I got the Harrow Times again, and there was the following: “We have received two e-mails from Mr and Mrs Charles Pewter requesting us to announce that they were at the Civic Hall LCCI evening, attended by Boris Johnson”. I tore it up and threw it in the bin. Time’s too precious to waste on this kind of rubbish.

Saturday, May 09, 2009

I got a single copy of the Harrow Times. There was a short correction to the previous article with various names included. The idiots had us down as Mr and Mrs C. Porter. What a pain. I mailed them again, putting our name in capitals – POOTER – so that they’d get it right, for once and for all.

Wednesday, May 06, 2009

I’m still pretty under the weather. My vision’s gone a bit weird. The Harrow Times has a report on the other night, with a list of guests. I was irritated that our names were missing, whilst Farmerson’s was there (with MLL after it – whatever the hell that means). I was really fed up, because I’d ordered some extra copies to show to friends. I e-mailed the Times to tell them they’d missed our names out.

Carrie was already eating breakfast when I came down. I got myself some tea, and said to her (quite calmly) “So what was up with you last night?"

She replied “What do you mean? More to the point, what was up with you the night before?”

I said “I don’t know what you’re talking about”.

She said, sarcastically, “Probably not. I doubt you can remember anything at all”.

This was right out of order, and I said, really sharply, “Caroline!”.

She said, “There’s no call for that. Don’t be such a bloody drama queen. You can keep that for your new best friend “Johnny”, the builder”.

I was going to interrupt, but Carrie suddenly went off on one. I’d never seen her in such a temper before. She told me to shut up, and then said “Now. It’s my turn to say something. After banging on about how much you dislike Farmerson, suddenly you’re off knocking back champagne with him like there’s no tomorrow. And then you ask this builder – who made a total cock up of removing the urn – to come back in our cab. I don’t complain when he treads on my dress and tears it, or knocks the Prada bag on the ground and doesn’t even apologise or pick it up; but then he sits their swigging whiskey all the way home. And that’s not all by a long chalk. When we get back, he doesn’t offer to pay a penny towards his share of the cab, and then – and then – you ask him in! Thank God he was still vaguely sober enough to realise I was sick of the sight of him”.

The Laurels

Oh God. I felt absolutely dreadful. To make matters worse, suddenly there’s Gowing coming into the room, with a mop dangling over his head, and my old school scarf round his neck. “Cripes! Yaroo! What a topping shindig! Boris bagsies the canapes, you stinkers, what?" He marched around the room looking like a total arse, and since we were ignoring him, he stopped and said “Whoops! What’s all this. Bit of a domestic?”

There was an uncomfortable silence and I said “Gowing, I’m not well, and I’m not in the mood for your messing about, particularly when you come into the house without knocking. It’s not funny”.

Gowing said “Sorry. I just called in for my umbrella”. I handed it to him. It was the one I’d painted with the stencils. He looked at it and said “What the …? Who did this?”

I said “Did what?”

He said “This! It was my uncle’s golf umbrella. He had it for years, and gave it to me specially. It’s all I have to remember him by.”

I said “I’m so sorry. It was me. I thought it would improve it. You can probably get it off with some stripper”.

Gowing said, “You’ve got no respect, you, no respect whatsoever, and if it’s possible – which it isn’t – you’re an even bigger idiot than you look”.

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

I woke with a cracking headache. I couldn’t see straight, and felt like I’d got a really bad crick in my neck. I thought about calling the doctor but, in the end, decided against it. Got up, felt really woozy, and went down to the chemist’s who gave me some kind of herbal preparation called “Berocca” (tablets which went all fizzy in water). I felt so bloody awful at the office, that I had to ask to leave early. I went to Boots and got some Resolve. The Berocca had made me feel worse, if anything. Ate nothing all day. To compound it all, every time I spoke to Carrie she was completely monosyllabic – that’s if she said anything at all.

In the evening, I felt even worse, and said to her “I reckon I’ve got food poisoning, probably from those prawn canapes last night”. She didn’t take her eyes off whatever was on the TV and just said “Champagne never agreed with you”. I was peeved and said “That’s utter rubbish. I only had a couple of glasses, and you know as well as I do…” Before I could finish, she flounced out of the room. I sat around for an hour, but she didn’t come back in, so I decided to go to bed. She was in there already – she’d not even come to say goodnight. So I had to chain the front door and feed the cat. I’m going to have this out with her in the morning.

Monday, May 04, 2009

A real red letter day – viz. the London Chamber of Commerce and Industry reception at the Civic Hall, in the presence of the Lord Mayor of London, Boris Johnson. I had to get dressed at five, because Carrie wanted to clear the decks to get ready properly. Annie had come up from Beckenham to help, and kept running around looking for stuff, so I ended up answering the door to all and sundry in full evening dress.

The last time it was another delivery driver from Somerfield, who stuck a load of bags in my hand. I said “can’t you see I’m dressed for an important formal occasion?”, so I dropped them immediately, asked him to leave the rest on the step, and got so worked up that I called him a bloody idiot. He said I was out of order, and he’d report me, and left in a strop. I was trying to get the bags sorted, but tripped on one of them, fell down, and ended up flat on my back on the step. A jar of Dolmio sauce got broken in the process. I felt really giddy, but eventually managed to stagger into the living room. I looked in the mirror, and discovered my chin was bleeding, my shirt had a trail of sauce on it, and the knee of my left trouser leg was torn.

It was another delivery driver from Somerfield, who stuck a load of bags in my hand

Annie bought down a fresh shirt - not a proper dress one, mind you - and I changed into it in the living room. I stuck a small elastoplast on my chin, and Annie quickly (and very neatly, I might add) sewed up the tear. At seven o’clock, Carrie swept into the room, looking positively regal. I’ve never seen her looking so gorgeous, or so striking. She was wearing a satin dress (sky blue – my favourite colour) and a lace shawl (which Annie had lent her) around her neck to finish it off. I thought the dress was maybe a little too long behind, and the slit up the leg was certainly a bit too revealing, but Annie said it was what everyone was wearing this season. Annie was really kind, and leant Carrie a small clutch bag which she said was really expensive because it was one of a very limited Prada edition. Personally, I preferred the one she’d got from House of Fraser last year, but the two of them told me I hadn’t a clue.

We got to the Civic Hall a little too early, but I actually got to speak with the Lord Mayor who very graciously took a few moments to talk to me. I was a bit disappointed that he didn’t know Barry Perkupp, my Manager.

It was like we’d been invited to the Civic Hall by someone who didn’t actually know anyone influential at all. Crowds of people arrived, and the whole thing looked absolutely spectacular. I can’t even begin to describe it. I got a bit fed up with Carrie: she kept saying, “It’s a pity we don’t know anyone, isn’t it”. So?

At one point she panicked. I spotted someone on the other side of the room who looked like Franching (from Greenwich) and headed off towards him. Carrie grabbed the back of my dinner jacket, and squealed “Don’t leave me!”. An old guy (who looked like a real stuffed shirt) and two women burst out laughing at her. There were waiters and waitresses going round with plates full of fantastic canapés, and there was non-stop champagne. You could drink as much as you liked.

Carrie was gobbling up the canapes. Half the time she eats next to nothing and I worry she’s going to fade away, so I was quite relieved to see it. She tried everything. I was pretty thirsty, so I didn’t eat much. At one point, someone slapped me on the shoulder. I turned round to see John Farmerson (the builder) of all people. He was all matey with me and said “Hey fella! Good to see you. What d’ya think? Beats bloody Elmside, doesn’t it” I said “And what are you doing here exactly?” which seemed to crack him up, because he roared with laughter and said “Ooo! Hark at her!” in a camp voice, and then said “Well you’re here. Why shouldn’t I be?" I replied “Of course”. I wish I’d been able to think of something more cutting. Farmerson said “Can I get anything for the good lady?" Carrie said, “No thank you”. I was chuffed with her for that, because I thought he was a bit out of order talking to me the way he was. I said “You’ve still not properly explained how you severed the gas main”. He said “Excuse me Mr Pooter, I think you’ll find it’s not the done thing to talk about business on a night like this”.

Before I could work out what to say to that, a man with some kind of medal on a gold ribbon round his neck (Chairman of the LCCI Committee, I later discovered) came across to Farmerson, slapped him on the back, hailed him like he was some kind of long-lost brother, and asked him to dine at his lodge sometime soon. Incredible. For about five minutes they fell about laughing, in hysterics, and they kept saying they didn’t look a day older than last time. They put their arms across each other’s shoulder and toasted themselves with copious amounts of champagne.

I don’t quite see how a builder (like Farmerson) can (seemingly) be such good friends with someone who occupies a fairly important position in the business community. I was moving off with Carrie, when Farmerson grabbed me and said to the Chairman “Here, meet my neighbour Charlie”. (A bit of a cheek: he barely knows me. Wouldn’t it have been more polite to call me Mr Pooter?). The Chairman handed me some champagne. I told him it was an honour to meet with him, and we chatted for a while. Eventually I said, “You’re going to have to excuse me – I think I should be joining my wife”. I went up to Carrie and she said “Oh. It’s you. Please don’t let me take you away from your new best friend. I’m quite happy standing here, all by myself, in the middle of a crowd of complete strangers”.

It was hardly the best place for us to start having a go at each other, so I held out my arm and said “How about a dance, my darling. Won’t it be nice, in future years, to look back on the night we danced at a glittering event with Boris Johnson?" There was a small big band there (if that’s not a contradiction in terms), doing a mix of stuff. Carrie had liked my dancing way back, so I held my hand out to her, she took it, and we started a slow kind of jive.

Then it all went pear-shaped. I’d hired some patent leather shoes from Moss Bros, and still not quite got to grips with them. We’d just started dancing, and I was executing a neat little move (they call it a “man spin”), when my left foot slid out from under me, and I fell flat on my back. I cracked the side of my head on the floor so hard that for a moment, I hadn’t a clue what had happened. Of course, Carrie landed all in a heap on top of me, grazing her elbow and breaking the big clip thing in her hair in the process.

A load of people burst out laughing, but shut up as soon as they realised we’d genuinely hurt ourselves. A man helped Carrie to a seat, whilst I dusted myself off and made my feelings pretty clear about the health and safety implications of a highly polished floor. I told everyone that I would consider putting in a personal injury claim against the council. The man (he was called Darwitts) suggested taking Carrie off to get her a glass of wine, and I was happy to consent.

I followed, and ran into Farmerson who said “Oh. Was it you who went arse over tit?"

I just gave him a nasty look.

Rather patronisingly he said, “Mate, you and I are well too far over the hill for this kind of stuff. Leave it to the “yoof”. Let’s get a few in. That’s what we’re best at”.

Although I thought I was ducking out, I agreed and we went into the main banqueting area.

After this whole embarrassing incident, Carrie and I didn’t feel like staying much longer. As we were going, Farmerson said “If you’re off, do you mind giving me a lift?”

I thought it best to say OK, but I wish I’d asked Carrie first.

Sunday, May 03, 2009

I was watching Andrew Marr, but it was pretty uninteresting, and I ended up thinking about tomorrow’s reception quite a bit.

Saturday, May 02, 2009

Bought a silk handkerchief for next Monday, and a clip-on bow tie, just in case I can’t get to grips with the real one.

Friday, May 01, 2009

Carrie’s mother sent back the invitation, with apologies. She’d spilt some coffee on it. I was too furious to say anything.

Why shouldn’t
I publish
my diary?

I often see memoirs by people I’ve never even heard of and I don’t see why my diary should be any less interesting, just because I’m not a ‘celebrity’. I only wish I’d started it when I was younger.

Charles Pooter
The Laurels, 32 Elmside,
Barleycorn Mead, Harrow on the Hill.
charles@charlespooter.com