Dear Diary,I have received another missive from another I believed to have forgotten me..." Kabul is a lovely place....NOT!" Is it not strange coming fast on the heels of my rant? Chance or design? I know not, nor if I care.Where is Kabul? I confess I have never heard of it. I fancy it must be in the north and most probably Scotland. There is no scent of garlic nor urine upon the parchment. Can it be the French letter I was promised?
Dear Diary,I am much improved and this evening entered Cobbler's Bottom to dine with the Misses Forster and Dixon. They were in the area attending the funeral of an old acquaintance and were staying at the Inn. I solicited them to stay at The Grange should they return to the area again as they would be most welcome and far more comfortable than lodged in Cobbler's Bottom. We enjoyed a passable repast and reflected upon our recent visit to London then retired to a public ante room for tea and further conference. It was here that Miss Dixon recounted the mysterious tale of 'Snotty' Longbird, neighbour and cheese maker back in her Parish...Obadiah Longbird had an unhappy and unhealthy childhood. He procured his sobriquet from a perpetual cold and received a handkerchief at every birthday. He was a loner and had few friends but was fortunate enough to find love and made a living producing an unusual green tinged cheese. One winters day whilst returning home he stumbled upon two corpses by the road side and followed a trail of blood in the snow to a third corpse by which he discovered a box of gold coins. The error he made was to take it and return home and not say anything. The next day the Longbirds disappeared from their home. Mrs Longbird returned to her mother and 'Snotty' became nomadic seeking shelter and occupation wherever he found himself. He was convinced he was being pursued and thus never remained in one place for very long. The Longbirds remained in contact and resolved to leave the country together. 'Snotty' became more and more fretful and anxious to leave as the months passed. It was in May, two days before Mrs Longbird was to rendezvous with her husband at Dover, that she received news that 'Snotty' was dead. He had been working at a cattle farm and was found one morning crushed by the bullocks. Mrs Longbird left her mother's that very night and vanished. The coins were never recovered.Miss Dixon, took a sip of her tea and settled back into her chair as she came to the end. The whole room had fallen silent and only the crackling of the fire could be heard. I leaned forward and asked "How do you know this to be true?" Miss Dixon smiled and leaned forwards herself, "Mrs Longbird confessed the story in a letter given to a trusted friend to be opened only after her death.""Are you the trusted friend?" I asked."No," Laughed Miss Forster, " Never tell Annabelle Dixon a secret!""So, the funeral you have come to attend is that of 'Snotty's' wife?" I enquired."No, it is of our old friend Ada Nuff who has been gravely ill these past months, but it was she who was the trusted friend and it was she who passed the letter onto us." Miss Dixon smiled and placed her cup and saucer upon the table. "I believe Mrs Longbird's Christian name was Collette," she said, " but she latterly went by the surname Fairfax."I did not mean to cover Miss Dixon in tea but I could not help but splutter!
Dear Diary,It appears that the earth moved for much of the household during the night. How vexing that I did not feel it. At breakfast everyone conversed, animatedly, about their shared experience whilst I sat quietly and fiddled with my sausage. At least my toe is almost recovered but no one cared or asked about it. I gazed forlornly at the Knob through the window. It seems so long since I have been atop it and long for the exhilaration and breathlessness I feel in it's mounting. Two notelets arrived for me after lunch. I am invited to dine with the Misses Forster and Dixon, my companions in the city, tomorrow evening in Cobbler's Bottom and shall look forward to that. The other message was from Mr Fairweather, who it seems has not forgotten me after all. Annoyingly the earth had moved for him too and asked if I had been jolted from prostration by the seism. Actually my bed did shudder briefly last night but that was due to an entirely different occurrence that a gentleman should never discuss.
Dear Diary,I need to rant about men, cads all, except for me, of course. I find them manner less and course, vain and ignorant, self centred and fickle liars. Where is Mr Ashforth who waxed lyrical about my delicate lips? I can only hope he is in a large pot in some unfriendly jungle, surrounded by painted natives waggling their 'doodah's' at him as they contemplate which spices to add to their Fickle Man Stew! What of Mr Fairweather who... cherished... my friendship? "Hello? Mr Fairweather? Remember me?" I sadly doubt it.What of this 'Thespian' to whom I have written who has not had the decency to reply to my epistle? I would and could not be so ignorant to another. As I now recall his ears were rather prominent and he did appear to sweat rather too readily and had the beginnings of a magnificent hump!What of Donald Oswald Tobias-Scott who abandoned me for France, and fortune, and fame and other things beginning with 'F'? "I will contact you.".....his parting words. Have I so much as sniffed a French letter? Have I Huffenpuff! I should no doubt be thankful as it would probably reek of garlic and urine. I hear tell those Frenchmen know nought of soap!There! I feel better for it. I know not what has come over me....but maybe that is it.........Nothing!
Dear Diary,There was a time not so long past when it was common place to be wakened, of a morn, by Farmer Clamp's cock, until it's untimely demise. The replacement, though stout and proud, has happily, been less than satisfactory at rising in the morning. However, it seems the Clamps are back to disturb my slumber as this morn I was knocked up by Titty Clamp, the farmer's daughter as she brought my lemon curd on toast. It transpires she has been taken on as a help to Mrs Crutchlow and all was decided whilst I was in London. I have always found her company agreeable and was pleased at her employment news. I sat up and said "Would you like to see my swollen digit?" She froze and looked startled and when I flung back the blanket, she screamed, dropped my toast and lemon curd and fled my chamber. She must have heard how awful it is to behold and was not up to it. A pity for I think it is much improved.
Dear Diary,I write today in some discomfort. I am greatly swollen in a manner that would make a person gasp if they were to view it. It is so tender to the touch, an alarming shade of purple and oh, how it throbs! I have only myself to blame for this state that I find myself in. I awoke Saturday morning and discovered it was twice it's general size. Mother had to be seated after viewing it while Fanny wafted her with a napkin. Doctor Proctor was summoned and I swear he winced too, which indicates to me that it is, even, one of the most distended he has seen. Mrs Crutchlow declared the skin, upon it, to look like that on a sausage that had not been pricked! I grew tired of all the gawping and so was helped back to my chamber for a private examination. Doctor Proctor said that he did not believe the toe to be broken and that the swelling would go down in due course. However he said he knew of someone who would be interested to view it. When I asked who, he said, "A foot fetishist.....I mean specialist.....in Manchesterford."That is how I found myself to Manchesterford yesterday where I was again examined at great length. I had to lay upon a couch bare footed and cover my face with muslin while the 'specialist' went about his business. I must confess he had gentle hands and spent some time attending to it, though much of the treatment appeared to wiping it with something warm and wet. When I was finally able to remove the muslin he seemed rather flushed, but thanked me for coming. "Will the swelling subside now?" I asked. He smiled and said, he could already sense that it was.Today, I have rested and have been brought frequent cold compresses but it appears to me to still be the same size. All this, and still no reply from London!
Dear Diary,I am, unexpectedly, to Manchesterford. I shall return anon.
Dear Diary,Shortly after breakfast there was a knock upon the door and my heart leapt like a salmon at the prospect of a reply from London, but ended up floundering upon the floor when I discovered it to be addressed to my Mother. It was from France and came from her friend Cornelia Du Plessis. She is to come! I could not determine whether this was welcome news for my Mother but she did not enthuse about the prospect. It was a moderately damp day out of doors but the chill air was welcome. I encountered Ned admiring his handiwork on the seat he has erected beneath the Old Beech. He is very proud of it and so he should be. He nodded a greeting and indicated for me to try it out but as soon as I set foot upon the wooden base I slipped, as it was wet and I began to fall. Ned caught me, but the momentum was such that I pulled him down with me and I somehow ended up on top of him, our noses almost touching. I had never noticed how blue his eyes were until that moment. We lay there for only a moment, so close and almost... comfortable, until sense returned and we quickly tried to regain decorum. It would have seemed comical to an onlooker as he did not feel it proper to push me away and I did not know where to put my hands upon him to lift myself off. In the end I rolled over beside him and he leapt to his feet and assisted me to mine. We were saved from the embarrassment of a post-mishap conversation by the approach of another delivery boy. I left Ned holding onto his erection, looking somewhat bewildered and hurried off to see if the missive was for me. I cannot report a happy end to the day, for the letter was not what I had hoped. Is there no end to my misery? The Tents are repaying their visit upon us with an invitation to stay with them at our earliest convenience. I was very tempted to put a toe to Fanny's pussy, in my vexation, as she ambled past, but resisted and kicked the stair post instead. I think I have broken a toe.
Dear Diary,I was filled with excitement and anticipation when I awoke this morning. I have calculated that today is the first day it is possible to receive a reply to my epistle that I despatched to the 'thespian' in London. I have remained about the house all day and peered down the drive for much of it hoping to espy some jolly fellow bringing a reply...but nothing! I cannot say I am not down hearted for I am. To receive it today, I feel, would have meant some effort on the fellow's part and shown an eagerness to communicate but each passing day hereafter only diminishes in my mind his attention for me. How unlucky I am! I blame magpies!Tonight Ned filled a bath for me and I bathed before the fire in my chamber. It was relaxing to watch the shadows dance about the room and lay in that warm enveloping liquid, but it soon began to chill. I called to Ned to fetch more and covered my eyes while he poured it in. "Shall I shave your back Mr Austen?" he said. Not scrub! Not wash!...................No shave!Is it any wonder I bathe alone! Do you see how hideous I am?
Dear Diary,I have spent much of the day deep in contemplation, especially of my navel. I have discovered it to be filled with all manner of dust and grit and thus I proceeded to root it out with a vengeance. I cannot conceive how it got there! I am always thorough with my ablutions! I have remained locked in my chamber all day and even declined Mrs Crutchlow's scrambled eggs. "I'll leave them by the door, Mr Austen" she offered.When I peeped out, not half an hour later, as I was then feeling peckish, I discovered the plate empty. Father's Willie had got to Mrs Crutchlow's eggs before I did!
Dear Diary,I am drained! I doubt I shall be myself for some time to come.Mr Gustav Wynde arrived far too early and was brandishing some strange implement which turned out to be an ice axe. I immediately decided the Knob was not lofty enough for this fellow. He did not seem in the least bit dismayed to discover that even though he had come to see my sister he was to spend much of the day with me. Jane's limp was far too obvious a fake, as it kept changing legs but Mr Wynde was blind to it and was just keen to get 'high'. We rode to the higher peaks beyond Netherwater and he set off at an alacritous pace. He just had to lead the way even though he did not know it. I noticed almost immediately the creaking of his boots at each step and just as it was becoming exceedingly irritating he began to talk. Jane had recounted from his letter the tale of his new residence but I had to relive it again in exacting detail. Then I suffered the tale of his drains which must have lasted for all of two hours. By this point we had reached the summit and I was contemplating throwing myself off the precipice before us but we paused to admire the view. The sky was clear and azure as far as the eye could see and there was a carpet of mist in the valleys above which the surrounding peaks peeped. We sat for lunch and enjoyed Mrs Crutchlow's fresh muffins with sausage and relish and Mr Wynde told me about rats and the variety thereof. I wanted to take his useless axe and make good use of it but I have heard tales of what can happen to a man in prison and though I believe I could endure much of it I doubt I could live without soap. On our journey down I heard tales of the Alps, about a variety of breeds of dogs and how to frighten a mole! I tried to get some recompense by recounting the tale of my Mother's favourite chamber pot, the tale which had sedated Mr Scrote, but oh no! Mr Wynde found it fascinating and it turns out he knows far more about chamber pots than any normal person needs to know. 
I stomped in to the Grange and glowered at Jane as I thrust my crop and hat at her. I heard Mr Wynde creaking in behind me as I mounted the stairs to my chamber. It is now almost midnight and he must still be here for I have not seen him depart. I shall remain here until he has gone. Come Oblivion, take me!My Mother's favourite Chamber pot...For it is it!
Dear Diary,I am far too compassionate a sibling...I cannot understand why I am compelled to see people happy even at my own expense! There was knock upon my door this morning and in slipped my elder sister. "Hello?" I said " Can I help you? It's Jean, isn't it?"She pushed me back on the bed and sat on me. "Wayne dearest !" she said. "I have come to ask, of you, a favour."......and that is how I am spending tomorrow with another suitor of hers, the verbose Mr Wynde, a man of the outdoors and fresh air. He has intimated to her that he wanted to go out and get 'high' and so I am to take him up some hillock! In his five page letter he was full of his new residence but said he would recount the amusing tale of his drains when he arrived. I cannot tell you how much I look forward to that! My sister is now beholden to me and I shall seek repayment of this debt! I shall stay up late to prolong tomorrow's coming. If only I had the pox, how fortuitous that would be!
Dear Diary,Such a bright, sunny day and yet so cold. The whole family went for a walk, even Jane forsook her books for the exercise, and it was most pleasant to be all together in the countryside. The snowdrops in the wood are out and no doubt soon there will be daffodils. On our return to the Grange I wandered into the garden to look for signs of spring and found Ned at work among the beds. "It's nice to have you back Mr Austen." he said. I nodded, appreciatively."Do you think the sap is rising Ned? " I asked."I am sure of it Mr Austen" he replied."Well you would indeed know, with your green fingers." I quipped.He looked down at his muddy hands and looked puzzled, then seized his tool and set to work once more.I wondered what Mr McVay was doing at that very moment. Was he marvelling at some art?.... enjoying some play? He was most likely devouring a sausage. I quickly retired indoors to satiate myself.
Dear Diary,I arose late and have spent much of the day in recuperation. My head is still a whirl with the sights and sounds I have encountered in past days. I am still full of regret at not speaking to the handsome fellow on Tuesday night and so this afternoon composed an epistle to him and then rode to Cobbler's Bottom to send it at once. Who knows if he may reply. Time will tell.I look from my window now and see the familiar sights of home, drifting up the stairs I detect the scent of Mrs Crutchlow's buns and from down below hear Father shouting " Down Boy!" to his Willie. Yet though they are welcoming and comforting I feel a little melancholy this night.
Dear Diary,Yesterday, I spent some time perusing the various boutiques and emporiums of this city. What a variety of merchandise is available for purchase! The Misses were to Kensington to exchange some jewellery but I rendezvoused with them for lunch before I saw them to their coach. We were only just in time and they almost had to leap aboard before it departed and so I did not feel our farewell adequate. I waved at their smiling faces peering from the carriage window as they headed back north.In the evening, I met Mr McVay and once more spent an evening at the theatre. We had an excellent view, indeed our seats were on the first row and therefore had a marvellous view. It was a colourful feast of song, dance and laughter and told the tale of a rather plump girl who against all odds procured her man. There was one thespian who I noticed kept glancing at me as he was engaged in his art. He was indeed a most agreeable fellow and I could not help but glance back... frequently. It was all over when a fat lady sang. Afterwards I allowed Mr McVay to take me up the back passage and we accosted the thespians as they exited the theatre. I was amazed to discover that it had not been a fat lady at all but a fat man! He graciously signed my pamphlet as did the plump girl. I believe she was indeed female. I also noted the departure of the gentleman who had regarded me with some interest. He stood close by for a time but I was too coy to speak to him and when I next glanced about me, he had gone. I wish now that I had spoken to him and thanked him for the entertainment. I was somewhat melancholy as I returned with Mr McVay to his lodgings south of the river but slept soundly upon his sofa.Today Mr McVay, a real denizen of this city, gained us access to the King's Library and I was able to view some archaic texts and diaries including the Magna Carta. These ancients had such untidy handwriting and scarce write in proper English like what I do! Who knows, one day my own writings might be on display for others to see. I wonder what they will make of them. The afternoon, before my forced departure, was once more spent in the company of thespians. I just love the theatre and I make no excuses for it. It was a grand spectacle and a tale set in the mountains with a number of singing nuns and most enjoyable it was too. I noticed one of the nuns kept on glancing at me but in this instance I ignored her or maybe it was a him...theatre in London can be so confusing.I am of a mind to move to the City. It holds so much excitement and stimulation for a man like myself. I am reluctant to leave but, board the coach, I must. How I dread the journey without the jolly company of the Misses Dixon and Forster, and yet my feet ache so from all my perambulation and it will be some relief to rest them for awhile. Farewell London, for now!
Dear Diary,I love to wander this city! So many new sights and sounds and the odd unfamiliar smell which I confess are not always as welcome. Those far eastern fellows of last night were proclaiming a 'year of the rat' and I think I can quite well see why. The Misses said they encountered some on their return to their rooms last night. I cannot say I am surprised. There are some quarters of this city which are quite filthy and I am aghast at what people will discard in public places or indeed how they conduct themselves in the public view. Today I went to the Tower where Miss Dixon is acquainted with a Beefeater. I asked the fellow why he was named so and he replied because he was remunerated in meat. I fancy he was a sausage lover if ever there was one. What a jolly fellow he was and he gave us an engaging tour of that historic place. We heard the banging in Mint St of the coin makers and then went on to the White Tower and the Chapel. I have seen where Anne Boleyn lost her head, even the axe which severed it, and where her body now lies, though I hasten to add it has been buried and was not just lying there rotting in her Tudor garments. I noticed some rather large black birds about the lawn and asked if Miss Dixon had ever plucked and stuffed one of those. She confessed she had not but was eager to attempt it. Her friend, the Beefeater, grabbed her arm before she laid hands on one and led us to the Traitors Gate. Such horrors he spoke of and the great suffering that has taken place within those walls, and that was just his life. Later, upon the steps of St Pauls, we encountered some Bohemians who wanted to share, with us, some art. T'was nought but a crack in the floor but they were indeed enrapt by it. I cannot say that I do not appreciate a good crack when I see one but my first reaction is always to see it filled. I said nothing on the matter though and smiled appreciatively.We took a carriage to Covent Garden and took tea and browsed amongst the stalls before heading off for dinner. The Misses were keen for me to try a new establishment they had heard of. I think it must have been Scottish fare for I believe the proprietors name to be McDonald. I am glad he did not show himself for I found his picture upon the wall frightening enough. I have seen red hair but I am afraid his beggared belief!The evening was spent with the company I adore, yes Thespians! Such a delightful few hours of music and song, a love story set in Greece and the odd dancing queen! 
The Misses have to return on the morrow and I am to my friend Mr McVay across the river. He is also a jolly fellow and is also a lover of meat............... and sausages and pies and cakes and biscuits and no doubt cheese.Mr McVay, for it is he.
Dear Diary,London! What a different world this is compared to my life back home at Thrushcock Grange! The journey was long and tiresome and not a little uncomfortable. If I sit still, I yet feel as if I am being jostled up and down. The seat upon which I sat had some unmovable protuberance which prodded my back throughout the journey. I was constantly poked all the way from the Grange to the City. Can you imagine it? At least I had the Misses Forster and Dixon for company and Mrs Crutchlow's stuffed muffins provided much welcome sustenance. The Misses are staying in rooms in the north of the city whereas I am near Aldgate and most comfortable my rooms are too, although there is an unfathomable draught which keeps extinguishing my candle and persistently thrusts me into darkness. I reconvened with the Misses for dinner down by the docks where some far eastern fellows seemed to be holding some kind of celebration. It was all very colourful and noisy. Suddenly we were startled by what, at first, seemed to be gunshots, but which, was in fact, some kind of celebratory explosive. It was all too much for the Misses and when we were all but dragged into an eating house, we acquiesced politely and took a seat. Well, I have never eaten such strange looking fare but these Misses are indeed adventurous women and partook with relish whatever they were offered. "Delicious!" exclaimed Miss Dixon as she finished off what appeared to me to be no more than a bowl of sheep's testicles. What some people will put in their mouth!
Dear Diary,I am full of excitement and anticipation. I do not think I shall get much sleep tonight for my head is spinning with the prospective sights I might encounter in the city. I must be up early to catch the coach. Ned is going to knock me up at dawn. Mrs Crutchlow has baked and filled some of her delicious muffins to see me through the long journey. I shall return on Wednesday but in the meanwhile shall endeavour to keep you informed of my experiences if I am not otherwise engaged or distracted.Adieu.
Dear Diary,I have been lax of late. Yesterday I was much taken up with arrangements and plans for my upcoming trip to London and spent long hours in discussion with Fanny about what I should wear. Tonight I was invited to dinner at The Farrier's, an old hunting friend of my Father's. It was, indeed, a splendid evening of some of the most pleasant social intercourse I have enjoyed of late. Sat close by me at the table were Mrs Marrs, mother of the identical twins, Matthew and Abigail; Mrs Taylor, a woman whose wit is highly regarded by herself and the amusing spinsters Misses Forster and Dixon. Oh, happy fortune! You will never guess! Yes, the Misses are to London also, and what is more on the same coach as I! They are always pleasant company and I am sure will make the journey more agreeable. They have travelled widely and are full of tales of their adventures and mishaps abroad. Miss Dixon is most delightful and often speaks without thought or care for the consequences of her words. Tonight she gained the attention of the present company with her delightful kitten impressions and then shocked them all by telling of how she drowned them and all the while smiled her winsome smile. I hear tell there is not a bird she has not plucked and stuffed. I cannot wait to see what London will make of her.
Dear Diary,How cruel are the Fates and how they eavesdrop?! I was in the final throes of mastication on my morning sausage when Ned announced the arrival of Mr Scrote. Jane tried to make a hasty exit but was thwarted and had to dive under the table just having time to hiss "Inform him of my death!" Mr Scrote limped in and peered about the room looking for the object of his affection. His search was waylaid when he espied a sausage that remained upon the breakfast platter that Jane had abandoned in her haste. I stood and helped him into Jane's seat and indicated that he was welcome to eat if he wished. I politely enquired of his health and then wished I had not. He began to eat noisily and talk at the same time about the present state of his bowels. Half chewed morsels of sausage and sputum flew from his mouth at sporadic moments and he dribbled horrendously down his chin. I became aware that I was holding my napkin over my mouth for longer than necessary and was staring at him with a look of incredulity. I stood and went to the window to find a better view. I could see from where I now stood Jane glowering at me from beneath the table but if I was to endure his company then so was she. I made polite conversation but tried to steer it to the dullest of subjects. Whilst I was fabricating the history of my Mother's favourite chamber pot he nodded off and slumped forward onto the table. Jane and I, thankfully, made our escape. It seems he was discovered shortly afterwards, by Mrs Crutchlow, in quite a state. He was standing before the looking glass and indicating to an injury on his head. Mrs Crutchlow bandaged it tightly and sent him home. When I enquired later as to the nature of the wound Mrs Crutchlow smiled and said "There was no injury Mr Austen, he had just nodded off on a cooked tomato."
Dear Diary,How strange it is when one looks forward to solitude but when it comes one longs for company. How contrary I am. The Tents have gone and hope to return again after we have been received by them. I shall try to resist that. I think I would rather suffer an evening with Mrs Norris on the joys of embroidery and gladly endure being regaled by Mr Scrote with further tales on the state of his bowels. Soon I am to London and I cannot wait for the distraction and amusement it will bring.
Dear Diary,Snow again! The world outside looks most attractive when dressed in white and is usually a welcome sight but today winter's raiment only served to delay the departure of the Troublesome Tent's. We went for a stroll in the woods and I found amusement in the occasional nudging of laden boughs which deposited their icy covering on the heads of my 'dear, dear' cousins as they passed underneath. Again Evelyn was very attentive towards me and offered her muff to warm my cold hands. I declined graciously and warmed them in Fanny's instead as I have so often done before. I think Malcolm may be getting a chill after his recent mishap at the pond so we did not stay out too long and returned to a hot bowl of Mrs Crutchlow's vegetable broth. My Father's 'One-eyed Willie' has perked up greatly in recent days and has been feted with attention from all angles. It just loves being petted and patted and tickled and stroked. Ned has thankfully been quite scarce of late and I have tried to avoid him when he has been about. I fear I shall not be able to look him in the eye again for fear of blushing.
Dear Diary,I smile as I write; despite having had the company of Malcolm for most of the day; despite shivering for much of the day beside the pond and despite the fact that I caught nothing during our fishing excursion. Malcolm, however, successfully caught a magnificent brown trout which seemed very reluctant to come ashore. He finally managed to land it and proudly held it aloft and revelled in his triumph. I graciously smiled, stepped forward and saying "Well done!", slapped him on the back heartily. He was somewhat unprepared and lost his footing, and the fish, as he toppled into the water. A good day, I believe.
