The Diary of a Nobody
Being the modern day record of Charles
Pooter VI -
direct descendant of the 19th Century original
Friday, May 07, 2010
Got an e-mail from Jim Franching inviting us across for dinner tonight to meet with someone called Frank Huttle, a very witty American journalist. Jim apologised for the short notice, but said he’d been let down by two guests at the last minute, and looked on us as old friends who’d be happy to make up the numbers. Carrie was rather put out by this, but I explained that Jim was very well off and a bit of a mover and shaker, and it mightn’t be a good idea to let him down. I said, “And we’re sure to get a good dinner and some first class champagne”. “Which never agrees with you!” Carrie replied, sharply. I ignored her comment. He’d not said anything about dress code, so I mailed back saying, “Delighted to accept. What‘s the dress code?”Got back early, in time to get suited and booted, as instructed. I’d wanted Carrie to meet me down at Jim’s, but she didn’t want to do it that way, so I had to go home to pick her up. Jim’s place is such a long way out, and there are so many changes to get there, that I allowed plenty of time for the journey. Too much, in fact. We got there at twenty two and had to wait around while he went up to get himself dressed. He was down bang on seven o’clock, which was quick.
I have to say it was pretty classy company, and though we didn’t know anyone, they all seemed very well off. Jim had got outside caterers in, and had spared no expense, with big flower arrangements and special table decorations. All in all, it looked superb. The wine was fantastic, and there was plenty of champagne: Jim said he’d never tasted better. There were ten of us, and each of us had a menu at our place setting. One lady said she always kept the menu, and got us all to sign it.
All of us did the same, bar Frank Huttle who was, of course, the guest of honour.
The guests were Jim Franching, Frank Huttle, Samuel and Chloe Hillbutter, Jemima Field, Quentin and Pamela Purdick, Andrew Pratt, Richard Kent and last, but not least, Carrie and Charles Pooter. Jim said he was sorry that I didn’t have a lady sitting either side of me (the numbers were uneven). I said I preferred it that way, but afterwards I thought maybe I’d sounded rude.
I sat next to Jemima Field. Clearly, very cultured, but also very deaf. It didn’t really matter: Frank Huttle did all the talking. He’s incredibly intellectual, and some of the things he said (if anyone else said them) would sound pretty contentious. I wish I could remember a tenth of the brilliant stuff he came out with. I put a few notes on my menu as a reminder.
He made one point which struck me as really acute (not that I agreed with it). Pamela Purdick said, “You’re very unorthodox you know, Frank”. Frank, with a peculiar expression (I can see it now) said in a slow, resonant voice, “Pamela, “orthodox” is an over-inflated euphemism for “narrow minded”. If Bill Gates and Richard Branson had been “orthodox” we wouldn’t have a personal computer in every home or affordable space travel on the horizon”. There was silence for a while. I thought that such an argument was potentially very dangerous, but at the same time I felt - as I think we all did - that there was no answer to it. A little later on Pamela, who’s Jim’s sister, and had sent out the invitations, got up and suggested the ladies take a walk around the garden. Frank said, “Ladies, you’re not going to leave us so soon, are you? Why don’t you stay while we boys chew the fat?”
“Orthodox” is an over-inflated euphemism for “narrow minded”
Their response was immediate. None of the ladies (including Carrie) wanted to miss out on Frank’s fascinating company, so they instantly sat down again, with lots of laughter and a bit of banter. Frank said, “That’s good. No one will be able to say you’re orthodox again!” Pamela, who seemed to be quite quick-witted and sharp said, “Frank: we’ll meet you half way. You boys chat ’til halfway through your Courvoisiers, then we’ll take a stroll round the garden. How’s that for a happy medium?".
I’ll not forget the effect that the words “happy medium” had on him. He gave us a dazzling definition of the term. I found it quite alarming. He said something like, “Happy medium, eh? Don’t you know those two words mean “miserable mediocrity”? I say, go business class or cattle class, marry a model or a moose. The “happy medium” stands for respectability, and respectability is utterly insipid. Don’t you agree Charles?”
I panicked at being put on the spot, and was only able to nod and say that I was afraid I really wasn’t in a position to offer any opinion on the matter. Carrie was about to say something, but was interrupted, which was a relief because she’s not very clever when it comes to debating things, and you obviously need to be particularly smart to argue anything with someone like Frank.
He carried on talking so effortlessly that it made his barmy ideas sound totally convincing. “The happy medium is just a half measure, nothing more, nothing less. Guys who like Jack Daniel’s, but haven’t the guts to drink a whole bottle and settle for a double instead – they’re not going to invent the iPod or shoot a movie like Apocalypse Now, are they? They’re half-hearted. Small Fry. Respectable. The happy medium. They’ll spend their lives festering in some mock tudor suburban semi that looks like a dolls’ house”.
We all laughed.
“That kind of life” continued Frank, “is for guys who’re soft… soft in the head… For God’s sake, they probably even wear slip on shoes!”
I thought this was pretty personal, and a couple of times I caught myself looking under the table, because I was wearing slip ons. And why not? If his comments weren’t directed personally at me, they were pretty careless, and so were some of the other things he said later on, which must have made Jim and some of the others feel rather uncomfortable as well. Actually, I don’t think Frank meant to be personal, because he added, “I’ve not run into people like that over here, but there’s plenty in America, and I can’t stand them”.
Several times, Jim suggested passing the wine round the table, but Frank didn’t take any notice. He carried on like he was giving a lecture.
“What we want in America is English-style homes. We’re always on the move. But your domestic environment is charming. There’s no display, no pretentiousness. I’m sure you don’t serve dinner any differently, whether or not you have guests. Certainly no outside caterers fussing about the place”.
I saw Jim wince at this.
Frank carried on, “Just an intimate dinner, with a few special touches, like you’ve organised tonight. You don’t embarrass your guests by shipping in a load of champagne at £60 a bottle”.
I couldn’t help thinking that the Cristal we were drinking must have cost at least that.
Frank said, “I’m talking about people who’re spineless, boring and dull. The kind who’re happy to stay at home and waste their time playing board games with their wives. We don’t want to spend time with people like that. We’re far more refined. We don’t want to waste time socialising with deaf old trouts who can’t keep up with an intelligent conversation”.
We all looked at Jemima. Luckily, since she’s deaf, she was oblivious, and just continued smiling and nodding her approval.
“There’s no one here,” said Frank, “like the kind of stupid, air-headed women who think that because they get a ticket to some C-list party, they’re suddenly celebrities. The kind Vogue has never featured, and never will”.
Frank paused for a moment, which gave the ladies an opportunity to get up from the table. I quietly asked Jim if it’d be all right for us to go, since we didn’t want to miss the last train, which we nearly did by the way, because Carrie mislaid her handbag.
We got home very late, and when we got into the living room I said, “Carrie, what did you reckon to Frank?" She just said, “Very like Lupin”. I’d thought exactly the same whilst I was on the train. The comparison kept me awake half the night. Frank was of course older and more influential, but he was like Lupin. It made me think how inflammatory Lupin might be if he were older and more influential. I’m proud to think he does resemble Frank in some respects. Like Frank, Lupin has original and sometimes amazing ideas, but they’re ideas which are dangerous. They’re the kind of ideas which can make people extremely rich, or extremely poor. They can make them, or break them. My feeling is that people who live a simple, unsophisticated life are happier. I think I’m happy because I’m not ambitious. I kind of think that Lupin, now that he’s working for Barry, may be content to settle down and follow in his father’s footsteps. It’s a comfort.
©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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