23 December, in the year of our Lord 2020

Up, I and Banjo breakfasting on a Gourmet satchet, felicks, gruel and milk. Lit the hearth but the wind northeast, which makes it go over a high roof next door and fills my room with smoke. Anon, the Messenger from my father that a maydservant who comes to my mother hath a cough and will not come today, which makes him ill at ease, for a new kind of Covey is abroad which is more of a party animal than the old, and which has made the French, who are also abroad, to cause a big tail of carriages in Dover and while our backs are turned will steale all our Herrings. The Secretarie for Gridlocke says it is all to the good, for we are in practise for January when we will finally get what we voted for, though I think it is the French, not us, who have took back control of our boarders. Mrs. Dick by the Messenger shew me some cross stitch she had made and I congratulated her for a lovely little robbin, but she sayd it was a baby pinguin with a red heart on it.
  Felt hungry so about 11 a-clock joyn’d another long tail, in the lane, to buy choppes for dinner from MacSporran’s new butchershoppe, to have with pickled oysters, and to inquire after his wife, who I saw last five months ago in a rainstorme, in a Special Bubble floating down the lane to Westminster Stairs and the river. And a very fine and unexpected thing it was to behold such many young people in the tail before me and behind, all a-giggle and extraordinary merrie in high spirits, even for Christmas, which lifted my own. Inside, heared two ask for the ‘special Haggies’, and they gone, a-sniggering in the going (though I know not what was the joke), thought to buy it too, having not eat it for a long while, but there was none left, and MacSporran says to me, ‘Aye — we’ve had a bit of a run on it.’ ‘In that case I will have two lamb choppes after all,’ say I. ‘And how and where is your good wife?’ At which threw he a scurvy look. ‘She’s abroad,’ is all he says — but everyone knows that; I just wondered where she was.
  After, cut my hair in the kitchen, trimmed my beard in the closet and attended to my fat balls in the garden. 

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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