The Diary of a Nobody
Being the modern day record of Charles
Pooter VI -
direct descendant of the 19th Century original
Sunday, November 15, 2009
A nice peaceful day. Lupin headed off in the afternoon to the Mutlars’. He was in high spirits. Carrie said “If there’s any advantage in this engagement it’s that he seems to be happy all the time, but really, I don’t think she’s right for him”.Carrie and I talked about it in the evening. We agreed that an early engagement didn’t necessarily end in an unhappy marriage. After all, as Carrie pointed out, she and I had married pretty early, and bar a few minor incidents, we’ve never really exchanged a cross word. I reckon that half the pleasures we experience in life arise directly from having suffered struggles and privations in the early years of marriage - struggles which quite often relate to lack of money. These are the kind of things which often help to make loving couples bond together even tighter. I said as much to Carrie.
Carrie said I’d put it really well, and should congratulate myself on being a bit of a philosopher.
All of us can be vain. I must confess I was really flattered by Carrie’s compliment. I don’t pretend to have any great ability to express myself in high-flown language, but I do feel I’m very able to express my thoughts with simplicity and clarity. About nine o’clock Lupin returned looking dishevelled and a bit weird. We were surprised – we’d not been expecting him. Obviously he’d been out with the luvvies, because he said in a dull actory voice, like an old alcoholic in some bar-room scene in a 30s black and white movie “Give me a brandy. I need a brandy”. I said “Sorry Lupin, I’ve not got any. D’you want some whisky instead?" I was shocked when he downed a whole tumbler in one.
The three of us sat watching Poirot, in silence. At ten, Carrie and I headed off to bed. Carrie said to Lupin “Is Daisy OK?" Lupin said “Pardon? Hmmm. Daisy. Daisy. Now, let … me … see”. He stared into space, his brow all knotted like he was trying hard to remember something. “Oh yes! Yes!” he said eventually. “You must mean Daisy! Daisy Mutlar! Daisy Mutlar, the fat slapper! I’ve heard about her! Who hasn’t?”
Then he said “Mum, I don’t give a shit about her. I don’t care whether she’s OK or not. She’s a slag. I don’t want to hear her stupid, slaggy name ever again. All right?”
©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
Archives
XML Site Feed
(whatever one of those is)
Powered by Blogger