Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Dedication
For George and Weedon Grossmith qua the brothers who
have persuaded me that a nobody has every reason to have a
go at a secret journal.
N I C H O L A S
M .
R O M A N O
OP DAISY T
D
.P
DEEP
DIARY
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LB
Acknowledgments
Im indebted to the Lady and the Philosopher for the
inspiration.
My diary is in memoriam.
The Characters
MRS T
The leader of a top executive body. An authoritative, staunch
champion of the Establishment and the holder of radical views.
DINO
College mature student of the Humanities with a soft spot for a
new school of criticism called deconstruction. Mrs Ts
contentious tenant.
DR LIGHTHOUSE
Lecturer. Very left wing.
MR SMOULDER
Deputy-librarian with middle-of-the-road views.
JENNIFER
A New Age Movement fan.
FATHER MAX
Missionary priest and a lover of tradition.
ALMERINDA
An ardent feminist.
SOPHIE
Mrs Ts pet chinchilla. A standoffish but steadfast companion.
Day 1
Abbau, destruktion, deconstruction. I didnt bargain for a
pretty pass, but here I am, trying to get it off my chest and into
a notepad. The attic Ive recently moved into puts me on a
level with the spaghetti-like arms of a silver lime stretching
towards the sky, and the distribution of light and shade all over
the place makes for a chiaroscuro which, I suspect, would put
Caravaggio to shame. I can thank my lucky stars that Ive been
provided with a room of my own by courtesy of lady called
Margaret. Why buckle down to writing something like a diary,
then? The celebrated Samuel Pepys had a good deal to say
about himself and his host of friends as well as about things
such as the restoration of a king, a deadly plague, and a
devastating fire, whereas the sovereign of the island I came to
a good many years ago is safely on her throne and neither
plague nor fire is raging. As to my handful of friends, all I can
say about them would fill no more than a couple of pages and
that would be barely enough for a decent record. To crown it
all, Pepys knew how to write one, whereas I...
The thing is, I had a peculiar dream last night: a luminous
spot bobbed on the water and in its wake a ladder stretched as
far as my eyes could reach. Midget creatures were moving
their cloven hoofs up and down the framework, and my father
was standing on an upper rung with a patriarchal face and a
book in his hands, the word DIARY engraved on its front
cover. On waking up I have swallowed a cupful of my regular
mighty black coffee, hurried to my blotchy desk and jotted
down Day 1 at the top of the first page of my notepad.
Day 2
5, in all honesty, but the truth of the matter is that hardly
anything of note has occurred to me since Day 1: no ladder has
come into my line of sight with or without little devils on it,
and my makeshift little journal would have stayed untouched
inside the desk drawer had it not been for Sophie, the
chinchilla who happens to be my landladys darling and spends
most of her time ensconced in a burrow surrounded by an arty
piece of rock in a little corner of the flower-papered walls in
the lounge. True to her Latin American roots she shows up
only fitfully and mainly to nibble at the seeds, fruit, or grain
provided by her solicitous custodian.
Now, I was inserting a spoon full of steaming-hot tomato
soup in my mouth when I espied Sophie scurry out of her hole
and head for the allotted grub at a grey squirrels jerky pace.
The next moment I saw her stop dead in her tracks and swivel
her whiskered snout my way. Hi there! I cried. Enjoy your
meal, darling, I added in the teeth of her beady stare, but the
little darling scampered back into her sanctum, wagging her
tufted, dark-streaked little tail. You cold puny thing, I
muttered. Let me tell you that Im not sure you deserve your
time-honoured name. What about Ching-Ching for a
melodious change, eh?
Within seconds I was wondering how on earth the SinoTibetan name had flashed across my mind. Admittedly, I have
fallen in love with the charismatic Chairman Mao in the course
of my life, but that was far away and long ago. I shook my
head and followed the soup with a copious portion of fully
mature Cheshire cheese (its crumbly texture suits my palate to
a fault) which I washed down with a mug of ginger beer whose
spice flavour tickles me to death (sic).
My appetite satisfied, I headed for the upper regions, but
there she was again, Ching-Ching, sneaking out of her shelter
and making another neurotic dash for her ration of grain. The
dainty rodent seemed utterly oblivious of my presence and I
Day 3
An early breakfast with Ms T (I find the first letter of my
landladys surname adequate for the moment. As to the Ms, it
is because Im still in the dark about her marital status.)
Come and join me for a bite, Dino, she chimed as soon as
I entered the lounge. I willingly obliged, and the eats made a
hearty full English a veritable feast for my eyes!
Attractively dressed in a royal-blue garment which
harmonized with the colour of her eyes, my hostess let darkbrown cornflakes drop into her Wedgwoodblue bowl while I
stole a surreptitious look at her high forehead, assertive nose,
strong jaw, drawn-in lips, and gently tumbling chin. I quickly
put two and two together and came to a sum which tallied with
her dignified deportment: all in all an intriguing female
specimen far from devoid of charm in her vibrant full growth.
Im all for this variety of breakfast, I let her know in
between mouthfuls of the porridge I had opted for.
Particularly the toasted bread finely crowned with butter and
strawberry jam. The whole lot goes rather well with the tea.
Yum-yum.
Im delighted to hear this. The emphatic assertion was
enhanced by a robust smile. You see, cereals and a fry-up
have taken pride of place on our dining tables since time
immemorial. Like the tea, they are intrinsic to the tradition of
this country and I see no reason to replace them with a
continental apology for a morning meal.
I was chuffed about the intrinsic: its a Latin term and in
all likelihood Tacitus would have been equally happy to hear it
come through the lips of someone born and bred miles beyond
the sound of Capitol Bells (by the bye, were there any bells in
the historians time?) Its the sort of tradition that stays with
you for a good while after the initial impact, I remarked.
Actually, by you I meant me and my guts, but I saw fit not
to elaborate on the delicately gastric subject.
Day 4
Day 5
Day 6
Day 7
Day 8
Ive tapped into my late night energy reserves to make a
record of my growing impression that there are traits of
masculinity in Ms T, her floral name notwithstanding: the
quaintly feminine features I observed when we first met appear
to be offset by more than one indication of the virago type. By
the look of her she is a woman, but should I say that she is so
because of her biological structure or because of how she
behaves? Does the essence of womanhood affect the way a
female subject relates to the social environment?
Early in the evening she came through the door, swinging a
medium-sized dark handbag. You may well have noticed how
restrictive even a democratic government like ours can be,
she said at once. And the shame of it, for we are all born free.
I see myself as a free, independent woman who believes in the
responsibility of the individual. Each of us must be freed from
the dead hand of the state, but never allowed to sink back into
hedonistic self-indulgence.
I myself like to think of a society rather than of a state,
said I.
Society? There is no such thing as society. There are single
men and women, and there are families. Class is the motor of
politics in our country, as it is in any other country on earth. It
has always been. She cleared her throat gently. Allow me to
show you something, old boy. She opened her handbag. I
like keeping papers nicely tucked in here, she added while
looking into it. Doing so makes them almost part of me just
as my lipstick does.
Good organization seems to come naturally to women, I
suggested.
I for one am constantly taking a leaf out of Natures book,
said she. You may want to know that I was a research chemist
in my early days. Her visual search came to a quick end. Im
afraid the paper I meant to show you does not appear to be
with me at the moment; so much for a womans good
Day 9
My writing-pad has been lying idle on the desk for the past
few days and, in the depths of night again, I find myself
confronted with a gap which looks as dangerous as that
between a platform and a train. High time I filled the empty
space, mainly because novel ideas about the way we speak and
write have been brought to my attention as an aficionado of the
Humanities; therefore here goes!
This morning it was tea for one and one for tea: no sign of
Ms T. Sophie was not in sight either, and somewhat
disappointed even though sharing my breakfast with the
mammal was not on the agenda, I drained my mug in solitary
confinement. The drink had a middling taste, but then would it,
if shared, have had a stronger flavour, say, the exotic tang of
leaves reaching my table at the end of a long voyage from a
far-away corner of a foreign field which, in the sight of a
wartime young poet, would be forever Albion?
Inside an hour I was at college hoping to take part in a teafor-two and two-for-tea social event, but when I caught sight of
Mr Smoulder and saw a possible tea-drinking companion
totally absorbed in his duties I headed for the shelves. Terry
Eagletons introduction to the intricacies of literary theory was
available, and I promptly took it down and onto my favourite
little place facing the window. I opened it at random. When it
comes to language, where do you draw the line? I read. Then,
Since the meaning of a sign is a matter of what the sign is not,
its meaning is always in some sense absent from it too.
A couple of lines below I learnt that language is something
out of which Im made, rather than a tool I make use of;
consequently, the idea that I am a stable, unified entity is a
fictional one. On the other hand, equally fictional is any other
meaning ideologically raised to a privileged position: concepts
like Freedom, the Family, Democracy, Independence,
Authority, and Order are barely compatible with the to-and-fro,
present and absent movement of language. The trouble is that