Friday 4th March 2022

I phoned Val. He described Storm Eunice from his point of view. He returned to bed to weather the storm. But the most frightful banging began. So he had to get up. His patio door was flung open and lurching. Apparently when I cleaned his windows I had not locked it up properly. So, in the teeth of Storm Eunice, Val fought with the door, finally triumphing over the elements and getting it secure. ‘Val,’ I said, ‘the scene should be painted and widely reproduced, replacing Grace Darling rowing out to that lighthouse as the artwork of choice in every 19th century home.’ Val liked the idea. ‘We’d have to get Gerícault. Nobody else would do to outdo The Raft of the Medusa.’

Val said he’d turned on the TV and discovered a War in the Ukraine. ‘But why?’ he said. He was begging for background, rather than blow-by-blow as offered by the BBC. I said, ‘I believe the Russians think it’s theirs.’ At once Val was expert. ‘All this has been going on since the 13th century. Such nonsense.’ He reeled off all the facts for five minutes at least. ‘Ukraine has always been a separate country,’ he said.

Royston King phoned. He’s worried about the Monarchy. But there’s always been worry about the Monarchy.

As it happens I was down with that virus that’s been mentioned quite a lot recently. Or rather up. I was always able to carry out my domestic duties, such as plumping the drawing room last thing and finalising the kitchen for the next day, as well as gardening, librarian work and managing my estates.

Something has happened that could wreck everything (I don’t mean nuclear war). I said to the Gay Mother: ‘We may have to cut back on fish and just be confined to hake.’ Reduced to hake only, because …. well, it’s an insurrection really. Finally they’ve come for us, those of birth, and are going to claw us down.