Not For The Diary Intolerant

I treat these narratives as a sort of diary. The existential journal of a random middle aged northern man’s ups and downs. Capricious meanderings based on truth, but given a light hearted fictional spin to ameliorate days that in reality are pretty drab.

Ordinarily, I attempt to avoid my diary becoming the type containing the covert sentimental prose sang about in the song ‘Diary’ by 1970’s band Bread; which included the following verse:-

I found her diary underneath a tree

And started reading about me

The words began to stick and tears to flow

Her meaning now was clear to see

The love she’d waited for was someone else not me

Wouldn’t you know it She wouldn’t show it

I’ve nothing at all against David Gates and his bands music. I’m merely using their interpretation of a diary in that song as what I’m keen to stay clear of.

Tales of romance, sentimentality and the restraining orders are ordinarily conspicuous by their absence in my monologues, although that goal isn’t always achieved in the tomes about my wife’s illness.

My far from covert words, which are openly accessible on my website , have obviously to be carefully selected. My objective being to entertain and inform, not to offend or anger.

I try to impart a humorous edge to these daily autobiographical tales. Making the narrative a personal comedic liberation from the more challenging aspects of day to day existence. A self-indulgent ramble to planet random in a ship crewed by my multiple personalities.

Let me start by saying, I make no claim to be a latter day 17th century wordsmith Samuel Pepys. My weblog incomparable to the Cambridge University educated diarists work. The author of keynote diaries, kept from 1660 – 1669, lauded for being a primary source of historic importance with its recording of the English Restoration period.

There are few, if any, comparisons to the lifelong bibliophile’s work and mine. Amongst his work, Pepys wrote eloquent eye witness accounts of the Fire of London, the London Plague and an Anglo/Dutch war.

A far removal from my journals, which include eye witness recollections of the spoilt cat next door fouling in my garden, my wife and I gawping at autumn leaves falling at Temple Newsham park and the great fire in the hearth of the Roundhay Fox pub.

To quote a contemporary young writer, “Pepys was the governor, innit!”…… In his time, he was Chief Secretary to the Admiralty, President of the Royal Society and Freeman of the City of London, but I’ve yet to unearth a journal record where he’s governor inniit!

Image result for Old Diary

To conclude, I best add today’s diary entry. In truth, apart from a visit to hospital with a family member (which I wrote about yesterday), there isn’t a great deal to say.

I took my mum and dad (Mally) grocery shopping in the afternoon. This journey provided its usual comedic value, provided by my dad’s habitual ‘use by date’ OCD and their lukewarm arguments over buying branded or own brand goods.

Mally’s moving of greengrocery pallets to search for the latest dated pack of green bean was perhaps the funniest incident. A situation that could have only been bettered humour wise if he’d have left all pallets he’d moved on the floor, instead of returning them to the shelves.

On leaving Sainsbury’s, a storm of biblical proportions had arrived at LS11. To avoid them getting drenched, I left my mum and dad to shelter with their groceries indoors. I then raced towards where I thought I’d parked my car, with a view to pick my parents up back at the entrance.

Unfortunately, I’d forgot where I’d parked; receiving a right royal soaking for my forgetfulness! After bumping into a bloke with an umbrella exuberantly singing and dancing in the rain, I finally got to my trusty black Astra soaking wet through.

I returned for my parents at that point, surreptitiously changing the ‘use by date’ on the green bean packet to a previous day to try fool Mally, as I loaded the food bags into the car boot.

Yes, I do realise that was hardly akin to an eruditely written piece on the Great Fire of London, but give me a break I wasn’t flipping educated at Cambridge!


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