13 August, in the year of our lord 20201
Lay long in bed, till 9 a-clock, my back stiffened and paining since two days ago, which was Tuesday, and this morning without ease of any movement to roll out of bed and stand, the result I think of my cutting all my lawn the day before, which is to say Monday, and weeding between my flowers, and pruning a good deal, and washing the paving round my house, which is of travertine and should be white but were a greenish black, and slippery, like bile, which I washed with water through a howse Pipe which has such a force on it you could remove a toe with it, and all this on the same day; so that yesterday I found [it] difficult to walk and must rest. (I have done it before, only worse, when I could not walk at all, or hardly, which was in the Balearics when I could not get myself out of a coach we hired and was transfixed with one hand hanging on the door and the other on the roof of it, nor could I stand to shave myself nor rise to right myself from doing my business on the pot, which did concern me mightily that I might be found in that position: stuck, or even dead, in motion, as it were.) Mr. M. Jones hath given me some pills which he says are a nonstey-royally-ansty-flammorty, and tells me they will help. I am hobbling too for my heal hurts again, and as the urea unguent that I bought two months since is near gone, so I have left a tray or two of my water which I have passed, in shallow trays from the kitchen, to dry it in the garden and from it make a remedie of my own. And I am confined for a further reason, which is that on Monday (which day I think it was) I found lying on my drive a part of a thick spring, broken, which had fallen from beneath my coach, and the repair shoppe says I should not ride abroad in it, only to take it to them on Friday.
The weather this weeke is up so down, it being uncommon hot these five or six days, with a dampness in the air so thick as to get between the teeth, which I did not think to see after so many miserable weeks; and though downpours with rain and Thunderclaps, and even hale, did pass by my house, they did not pass by the house of Mr. Jones, who left open the windows in his roof and had water over his bed and all on the floor of his closet.
After breakfast, doddered down to feed Mr. R. Owens cat and to check the post [man] has not left packages in the cat flap again, which he did some days since, blocking it for its whole length, which is made of a small tube between the out and inner walls, so the cat could not get in or out. (Now I remember, I could not get myself in either, for Mr. Owen has new gates, but the first time I ever saw them, having admired them from the street, I could not get in for the workmen had bolted on the inside and then left.)
After dinner to some trivial tasks in the garden, my back a little looser so I could stand almost straight upright, and sat there and read a little from The Diary of Samuel Pepys: A Selection by Mr. Robt. Latham, which I have almost finished, though I remember almost nothing of the selection made by the good Mr. Latham, and wonder if it were another life. For supper came along Mr. M. Jones, bringing salad and some cheeses and a fine pie of pork, and a summer Pudding, though to bed betimes against taking in my coach in the morning.
I did not get in through the cat flap, which is a squeeze even for the cat, which has put on wt. during Lock Up; I reached inside the gates to wiggle loose the bolts, which I could not have done today.
1. Pepys in entries around this time sometimes transposes events or confuses his accounts of them, commenting to that effect himself in his entry for 28 July when he says, ‘my Journall […] is all in the wrong order and I think my father would do a better job’.