I was nearly run over to-day.
How I loathe this modern reluctance to see . . . !
I have been thinking that I should venture a journey to Rome. It was a great regret of mine in life not to visit the Eternal City, sacred birthplace of all that is Good and Right and Just in the mind of Man, but as we're all well aware I was highly occupied with ensuring the continued survival of the glorious Revolution. Now that I am deceased, a subject upon which I could elaborate in escalating tones of righteous indignation for hours (not to mention days, or years) I see no reason not to go.
Perhaps there might be Roman ghosts there. Do you think I could speak with them? My Latin is very good. Superb, I should say. I'm sure they would welcome me as a saviour of humanity and prophet of Liberty, even no one around here seems to appreciate my worth.
My God, I can't think what came over --
In any case, I'll certainly never make an omelette from duck eggs again. The results were positively sinister. Feh.
I think I need to go and have a lie down. Speaking of which, I'm looking into procuring one of those ancient Egyptian machines, you know the ones, they used them instead of pillows. I rather like the simple elegance of the thing, and it's not as if I've any frivolous hair to let down all over the place, so really I'll never have a better chance to expand my cultural horizons.
i Dont' nkowwhst you lot a4e on ab0ut crhistmass is exxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxcellent!
i made ex esss!!
YU AIR WALL CRAZY!!!
i lov yo gus.
I paid a return visit to the Café Procope. I don't know why I bother, they still haven't put my name over the door. It's ridiculous. For example, I've got a much better personality than Marat has, but his name is there.
Some people have no taste.
You know what? I don't care. They don't have to remember me. It's the oldest operating restaurant in the world. It's not normal to be in operation this long, they'll have to close down soon. Especially if they're going to go around disrespecting history like this. It's shameful, that's what it is.
I remember a time when I never had to make my own coffee . . .
I have acquired (not knitted) a scarf.
I assumed it would be obvious that, as I am (a) bipedal (b) wingless (c) beakless (d) claw-less [despite certain claims to the contrary] and walk upright, etc, I am not a dove.
How foolish I was.
Perhaps you will be interested to know, Diary, that I continue refuse to take up knitting. Even if they say it's patriotic.
Oh my, was that an offense? Oh, how horrid, how awkward, how necessary, I suppose that now they'll have to -- ah, I must have forgotten. I'm sure someone's sorry.
Odd, isn't it, how long the days can seem when the worst that can happen has already come to pass.
I was quite right when I said winter is springtime; it certainly seems to be raining as if it were. The water is absolutely horrid, and very cold; it will remind me of my poor naked scalp. I feel as if I've got ice all down the nape of my neck, it really is just impossible.
In the street to-day I passed a woman with what one calls a drawn face. She was in a great hurry; she walked through me, and she shivered and drew her clothes more tightly about her.
O tempora . . .