A pair of shorts

22-23 July, in the year of our Lord 2020

Up betimes, and after breakfast in my carriage to visit my mother and father, who are well, though they have not left their house in Lock Up at all, which has vexed my father, only in their carriage to the river, once, where a very few abroad, and did not get down from their carriage, and then home. And they are 90, which is a great age, and my father I think of a mind sounder than mine, for sometimes I cannot remember why I am upstairs and have to ask the cat, but he can write me a list for Aldy’s, which he did, where he has not been these four months, and still get all of it in order of the shelfs where his shopping is to be found, which was all proper with not a single misteak, onlie that I forgot to take my mask and had to wear my bilberrie scrabbler instead, which did draw glances, though I think of admiration and people wondered where to get one for themselfs, for I heard one asking in the shoppe where it was. My mother had a Lock Up birthday, which celebrated with flours and a good wine, white with bubbles in it, and choclates and a balloon floating in the air on a piece of string, which I did send, but I am not sure she remembered. The following day, home at a little past 8 a’clock where a scowling sky and rain, and after a little supper to bed. 


28 July, in the year of our Lord 2020

Up, and it being dry so that I could wear a pair of shorts for a change, to the garden, where a little repair of the work of the rain and wind, and by and by comes Mr. R. Owen, as we had agreed, and with him he brought a proportion of the Ashes of the dear friend beloved of us both, to spread them finally amongst the flowers, as we had determined to do, and it done not without a little teare shed; for Adam loved the garden, to sit in it on a fine day with the gazette and a glass of sherris sack beside him, and take it in and admire it from his seat, though he professed to knowing not a jot of how to keep it, not of planting nor pruning nor weeding nor feeding; and I do not know why there comes a silly thought at a solemn time, but came into my mind the notion that he would now be doing more for the flowers in the garden than he ever did in life, which I think was not a malicious thing to think, and if it seems of black humour it is not meant so, but rather wrily fitting, for it would have been in his nature to chortle at the self same thing, which lifted my melancolie a little to think of his doing though I did not vouchsafe it out loude; but I thought it a little tribute to his spirit, which I miss, but I will not write more about it for I find the tears fall, as much as if I had said it.
  After dinner to my learning of Spanish again with Iñigo el Vasco, though my head is full of it and I have need of a break lest palabras fall out of my orejas (as I have heard said will happen), which I have not had these four, or five months even. And lately came along Mr. Nic. Lee and did deliver back to me my means of writing this Journalle, which I have not had for near three weeks, and brought it to my door by our prior arrangements, made previously before; and he has mended it, which seems a job done well, and he says he has put in it a new cell and it will sound better for there is a new speaker in it too, which I cannot fathom for a swan’s quill; cost 18l 15s. 6d. He says his wife is from a colony on the River Plate, which I find on my globe to be in America Meridionalis, and she must be like the person depicted there, which is with a shameful short skirt onlie and a bow and arrow, which I think explains the fashion I have seen in the chip shop in Many Bridge at night; and he speaks Spanish too, so I say ‘Gracias’ and he says ‘De nada’ for he understood me and I was greatly contented, for I think this is a great achievement for four years study. After supper to the filling in of some of my Journall for the last few days, as much as I can remember it, which is all in the wrong order in my head and I think my father would do a better job. And so to bed. 

By andywmacfarlane

I am a retired medic who likes messing around with a bit of writing, and friends seemed to like my social media postings of "Samuel Pepys: The Covid Diaries". So I'm having a go at blogging them.

2 replies on “A pair of shorts”

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