The Secret Diary of Michael Palfrey, aged 73¾

Never much liked reading other people’s diaries. Ploughed through Pepys recently. They say it’s very amusing, which I suppose it is, if you can hang on for about fifty pages per joke. Once you’ve done the cheese-burying bit, the inappropriate touching of various servant girls, and the everlasting “so to bed” – well, that’s about your lot, unless you get a kick out of endless meetings with politicians and civil servants.

Fair do’s though, can I do better? Doubt it. My uncle Oz used to buy me one of those little Letts’ diaries every New Year. None have survived, which is a mercy, but I remember starting off, full of optimism, every January 1st: “Got up. Got dressed. Weetabix for breakfast. Went to school. Came home. Had tea. Watched telly. Went to bed.” What did I enter for January 2nd, and 3rd and 4th? Yep, you guessed it. Don’t think I ever got past the 7th. And this was in the days when stuff actually happened.

Anyway, today – another Friday. Was a time when I used to like Fridays, ‘cos it always meant tomorrow was Saturday, but now, please explain to me, what’s the bloody difference? Tell you what, though, Dear Diary, no more of you when this is done. You’re toast, mate. And it’s just occurred to me that you could be reduced to a little haiku chain.

Something like this:

Got up this morning

Ate an unripe banana. 

Made pot of coffee

Read the newspaper

Went out for the daily walk

Turned round and came back

Which must be counted

As a second walk; if not

Then what was the point?

Lunch; kill afternoon

Make dinner, wonder how long

Before it’s bedtime