The Diary of a Nobody
Being the modern day record of Charles
Pooter VI -
direct descendant of the 19th Century original
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.
©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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