Tuesday 5th February 1808

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."