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 which in all reality are predominantly pretty drab.
Ordinarily, I attempt to avoid my diary becoming the type containing the 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 essays relating to family member cancer fights.
During the more emotive narratives, my words of candour which are openly accessible on my website writesaidfred.org , have to be carefully selected. A consequence of this writing journey being to entertain and inform, not to offend or incur the readers wrath.
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 version of 17th century wordsmith Samuel Pepys. My weblog incomparable to the Cambridge University educated diarists work. His keynote diaries penned between 1660 – 1669, journalling events in the English Restoration period, lauded as a primary source of historical importance of that era.
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 cat next door fouling in my garden, my gawping at autumnal leaves descending at Temple Newsham Park and sights of the great fire in the hearth of the Roundhay Fox pub.
To quote a contemporary young man of my acquaintance, “Pepys was the governor, innit!…… Though there ain’t many lol’s in his bombastic!”…… A comment I take with a pinch of salt. After all, during adulthood he was Chief Secretary to the Admiralty, President of the Royal Society and Freeman of the City of London, but my research is yet to unearth a chronicle claiming he was a governor inniit!
Before bringing this narrative to it’s conclusion I best add today’s diary entry:-
“Yesterday was bonfire night. Being in the company of Coco, my lab/retriever cross buddy, I was relieved that it’s out of season at the seaside resort where I’m residing with friends. The paucity of fellow holidaymaker meaning there was very few firework explosions to cause her emotional distress.
Last year’s 5th November celebrations at chez Strachan, back in Leeds, would have traumatised my beautiful little canine buddy. All I heard all evening was a relentless boom, boom, boom, boom!…….. It’ll be the last time I invite Basil Brush to one of my Guy Fawkes parties.”
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!