Thursday 20th March 1808

Dear Diary,
Spurred on to help the illiterate by yesterday's missive, I rode Python, through the rain, into Cobbler's Bottom and went straight to the home of Miss Grace Quirrel, who has set up a school, in her home, for a fortunate and needy few. I knocked upon her door and offered my services for a few hours. Owing to the dampness of the day I was immediately assaulted, nasally, by the aroma of damp children. Believe me, when I tell you, it is almost as bad as 'wet dog'! She asked me to assist a young fellow who was having trouble with his vowels, by the name of Willy Tert. He was also having problems with his nostrils too, which streamed constantly down his top lip until wiped away by his tongue.
Just before midday, the class put away their slates and Miss Quirrel began a nature lesson, and spoke of the harbingers of spring; the flowers now in bloom and the increased bird activity in their nest building. It seemed a good opportunity so I politely raised my hand and asked;
"Miss Quirrel, what is a fuckwit?"
It was a perfectly innocent question but, apparently, it is not a bird. Miss Quirrel assisted me from the room by my ear and asked me to kindly keep away from her school in future. As I mounted Python I noticed Willy Tert standing at the window. He breathed hard upon the glass and wrote "fockwet" upon the pane and then pointed at me, smiling.
As I approached the Grange I came upon the Parson hurrying towards me looking most distressed. I slowed to speak to him yet he kept on hurrying past, but I heard him gasp the word "Wolf!" I chuckled to myself for I knew he must have caught a glimpse of Father's Todger.