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Fat balls

10 December, in the year of our Lord 2020

Up, and removed a dead voal from the door mat. Thence to the Gardens where I help to curate the bollackworts on Thursdays, but have not been for 5 weeks, or more, and there greeted Mrs. Rosemarie Cress, who I perceived sat in a far corner; but she cried that I should come no further for she had emitted a great fart, which no masque yet invented would ward against, so we sat even further apart than usual. After, bought fat balls to feed the birds, and saw a shop newly open where before was Jervas the Barber, but now above the door says Jas. MacSporran, Esq. ~ Butcher and Master Purveyoure of Qalitie Meats, Game & Offle, and from the door in the street such a tail of people that I did not go into it, though fancied lamb choppes. After dinner, to Mr. Joneses house where took his Poudle for a walk, Mr. Jones visiting the man who looks after his teeth for him, for he likes to see them once in a while. Walked for a half hour, but it fell again to rain, so back. The balls for the birds are not fat, they are fatballs. It is the Poudle that has fat balls, I noticed from behind, on the way home. After supper, news that the First Lord of the Treasurie hath been rude to a German lady in Bruxels, so now the Navy will have to stop the French from eating all our herings. 

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.

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