Monday 4 July 2016

I tell my wife about my curious time-travelling dream and she blames my overindulgence in exotic foodstuffs. I resolve to keep a diary.

1st January

The start of another year. Carrie and I spent a very pleasant Christmas together; an unusually long break from the office, and a welcome one. Back to work tomorrow, so last night we made the most of what was left of the holidays. I'm not sure whether it was the leftover turkey, my overindulgence in pickled walnuts, or my insistence in consuming the last of the Limoncello that resulted in the curious dream I had last night. Over our cereals in the breakfast room I said to Carrie: 'Do you know, my love, I dreamed that we were transported back to Camden Town in the year 1892. We were an up-and-coming family with an ornamental boot scraper, a maid-of-all-work and a curious assortment of friends'. Carrie said: 'I did warn you that pickled walnuts and lemon flavoured Italian liqueur were a recipe for disaster. You were very restless last night, talking in your sleep'. When I questioned Carrie, she said she hadn't understood much of what I had said, aside from when I sat bolt upright in bed, loudly announced my intention of keeping a diary, then fell back upon my pillow, snoring, she said, 'like a trooper'. I told Carrie she must have been mistaken, since I was not in the habit of snoring. And I asked how many sleeping troopers she had encountered in her lifetime that gave her sufficient licence to compare my alleged snoring with theirs. Carrie said, rather mysteriously, I thought: 'I know what I know', and applied herself to her cup of tea in a manner that suggested the subject of my nocturnal habits was closed.

Carrie's mention of a diary set me to thinking. I had often considered keeping a journal, but had always dismissed the idea as being too time consuming, or too self-indulgent. After all, who would be interested in my life? Would I write it with a view to its being published? Or would I keep it secret, making sure to destroy it by means of fire at some appropriate date in the future before death carried me off? I decided that, on balance, I would start a diary in the form of a blog, since it was a convenient means of producing it (after a long career of clerical work using an ink pen, I found I could type faster than I could write), and it would be highly unlikely that anyone would come across it by accident. And, I reasoned, that the Diary of a 21st century Nobody might be every bit as interesting as the Diary of a Somebody'. We shall see...