The Diary of a Nobody
Being the modern day record of Charles
Pooter VI -
direct descendant of the 19th Century original
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”.
©MMIX KONSIGNIA. All rights reserved.
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
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