Diary of a Somebody Read online

  What on earth does all this mean? Even the boffins at Bletchley Park would be baffled. Toby Salt’s prize is a hamper from Fortnum and Mason. I hope he chokes on his salted caramel Florentines. He will be even more insufferable than usual at Poetry Club tomorrow. Beautiful, funny, perfidious Liz will be there, too. I don’t think I’ll go.

  Tuesday July 10th

  I went. I was persuaded by a news item this morning which suggests that people who read and listen to poetry are likely to live longer than those who don’t. Poetry reduces stress levels, researchers claimed; its rhythms and cadences alleviate high blood pressure. My own experience seemed to contradict this but I may be the exception that proves the rule. In the absence of any other discernible lifestyle choices regarding healthy living, I decided to brave it.

  Fortunately, Toby Salt wasn’t there. He was being interviewed on the radio. I hope the listeners were warned that exposure to his poetry may result in dizziness, diarrhoea and vomiting. In his absence, he’d given Mary some invitations to hand out for the launch of his This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave next month. I crumpled mine up in my cardigan pocket.

  Liz and I didn’t exchange a single word all evening. I thought her poems lacked their usual fizz and heady allure. I tossed off a light-hearted piece about the pain of betrayal and rejection, but my heart wasn’t really in it either.

  After we’d all had our turn, we sat down to discuss arrangements for the Poets on the Western Front trip, which is now only three months away. Mary took the chair.

  ‘First up, finances,’ she said. ‘Brian, how much have we raised?’

  I consulted my notebook. ‘We now have £9,855.27 in the bank.’

  Kaylee whistled. ‘That’s ten grand, to all intensive purposes,’ she said, impressed.

  ‘Yes, but don’t forget that nearly half of that is ring-fenced for Dr Miller and his expenses,’ I said.

  ‘And have you been in touch with him to finalise the itinerary?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘I’ve been very busy recently. But I’ll get that done by next month’s meeting – things are easing up.’ I glanced at Liz. ‘Some of my previous commitments have reneged on me.’ I was struck by a pistachio shell.

  Mary quickly moved the agenda on.

  ‘Chandrima and Kaylee,’ she said, ‘you had something to share with us all.’

  ‘We’ve put together a suggested reading list for the trip,’ explained Chandrima, pulling some sheets of paper out from her bag. ‘Kaylee has organised the books and poems by theme.’

  I glanced at the headings: Imperialism and Jingoism. The Exploitation of the Working Classes. Women to the Rescue! Death and Futility.

  ‘That should be very helpful. Thanks very much to both of you,’ said Mary. ‘Anything else from anyone?’

  Douglas put his hand up.

  ‘I was wondering,’ he said, a little bashfully, ‘whether it might be a good idea for us to dress up as infantrymen while we’re over there – in order to experience at first-hand what life would have been like for the poets in the trenches.’

  After some discussion the idea was vetoed, although Douglas was granted the concession of being allowed to wear a Brodie helmet for the duration of the tour.

  Wednesday July 11th

  I have now had time to reflect upon developments over the last few weeks – or ‘Saffrongate’ (as I inwardly refer to it). I must admit to being surprised – and, frankly, a little disappointed – to see Liz there, hanging on Toby Salt’s every word. Things between us had been going along so promisingly up until ‘Shedgate’ (as I inwardly refer to it) but I wonder now, in hindsight, whether the breakneck pace of our affair had frightened her.

  We are all free to make our own choices, however – no matter how stupid and ghastly they may be (and it is hard to think of a choice that is stupider or ghastlier). Regardless, I’m not the kind of person to harbour ill-feelings even if it does seem as if I’ve been led up the garden path (and all the way to ‘Gardengate’, as I inwardly refer to it).

  But if there’s one thing I refuse to do, it’s to dwell on such matters. Yes, sure, Liz and I had some good times but that’s all in the past now. I need to look forward, not back. It’s time to move on.

  Thursday July 12th

  I was spending the morning busily moving on when I came across a playlist that I’d compiled for Liz. It had taken me days to put together. I’d planned to send it to her weeks ago but had never quite got around to finishing it.

  I consider myself something of an expert in such matters, regarding the playlist as one of the most powerful weapons in my armoury of love. Years ago, it was a series of perfectly constructed compilation cassettes that were able to break down Sophie’s defences. It’s not simply a case of bunging one song down after another and hoping for the best. Each track needs to be carefully deliberated over and assessed, appraised for content, fit and flow. Every song choice represents a tiny glass fragment of your inner self; put them all together and the playlist becomes a window into one’s soul.

  I could have spent the whole day listening to it while staring dejectedly out of the window. But, having moved on from Liz and the whole Saffrongate thing, I didn’t do that at all.

  Friday July 13th

  I was staring dejectedly out the window, listening to a playlist, when the doorbell rang. It was Mrs McNulty in a state of some excitement. She’d come over to inform me that my cat has been possessed.

  ‘Possessed?’

  ‘Yes. By an evil spirit. Or maybe just by another cat.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I saw her today in the garden and she’s not herself. Just look at her!’

  I looked at the cat. She looked very much like my cat, asleep.

  ‘I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘My point exactly. That’s what she was doing.’

  ‘I thought you said she was possessed by an evil spirit or another cat?’

  ‘Well, the evil spirit might belong to a dog. Or a cat with a sense of mischief.’

  I remembered it was Friday the 13th. Mrs McNulty gets even crazier on such days. I ushered her out of the house with a hasty promise that I’d look into the matter in hand before she called the RSPCA or a priest.

  Saturday July 14th

  Dylan and I heard the VW Beetle sound its customary parp as it rounded the corner and Dave, Martin and Marvin were gone, leaving behind a trail of beer cans, cymbals and surgical gloves in their wake.

  We went back inside and I saw Dylan surveying the mess in the sitting room: the carpet was covered with records, most of which had been left out of their sleeves and were covered in cat hair; on the sofa lay plates of half-eaten food and empty tubs of houmous; piles of books towered precariously on the floor and it was clear from even the briefest of glances that a number of titles on the bookshelves themselves had fallen out of ISBN order; custard-cream crumbs were everywhere, having settled on the room like a layer of biscuity dandruff.

  Dylan sat me down and gave me a talking to. He’s worried about me, he says. Even Mum is worried about me, he says. I have lots to be positive about, he says. I need to think about all the good things around me, he says, and talks about my poems and the cat and how much he enjoys our Saturdays together. Most importantly, he says, I mustn’t stop hoping.

  He has written me a poem. It’s called ‘Hope on a Rope’. He asked if he could include it in my diary. I watched him quietly as he wrote it down:

  If you don’t

  want to lose hope,

  tie it to a rope and pull

  yourself to safety. Because

  hope has the power to lift

  you up – whether your

  problems are

  light or

  w

  e

  i

  g

  h

  t

  y

  Sunday July 15th

  I got my house in order. For once, I did not fight the ch
ores but embraced them with renewed vigour: laundry, ironing, vacuuming and cleaning. It was late afternoon by the time I’d finished. I sat down and picked up The End of the Affair.

  And I read it. Not quite all of it but, by the time I turned out the light, I was within whistling distance of the final page.

  Monday July 16th

  The cat has gone missing. I was reflecting on all the progress I’d made yesterday when I realised that it was achieved with – or perhaps, because of – the absence of cat. I rattled her food bowl at regular intervals throughout the day but with no success. I have checked all her usual sleeping places. I must confess that I am worried; this is not like her at all.

  In brighter news, I have finished reading The End of the Affair. This month, I will actually be going to book group having read the book!

  Tuesday July 17th

  It’s my birthday on Friday. Most years I do what I can to avoid it, shunning all human contact three days before and after its occurrence. But this year, in an attempt to re-establish my life on a more positive footing, I’ve decided to grasp it by the celebratory nettle and host a small party.

  I have sent invitations out to Mary, Chandrima, Kaylee, Douglas, Darren, Tomas, Mrs McNulty, Dylan and the Man at Number 29. I also wrote an invitation out to Liz but then thought better of it, scrunched it up and threw it in the bin: there is only so much that my new growth mindset can withstand. I would have invited Toby Salt but the party invitations came in a pack of ten and I’d run out by the time I got to him.

  There’s still no sign of the cat. I do hope she returns in time for the party. She would feel sad to have missed out on the opportunity of all those fresh laps.

  Wednesday July 18th

  I went to ask Mrs McNulty whether she’d seen my cat. She was in the middle of vehement denial of any involvement in its disappearance, when I noticed a piece of paper pinned to a door off her hallway. On it was written “EXORCISE ROOM” in shaky felt-tip pen.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a gym, Mrs McNulty,’ I said, striding past her and following the steps down into her cellar.

  And there was my cat, surrounded by candles on top of a wooden crucifix-shaped table. She was fast asleep and smelt of sage. Beside her was a book entitled Spiritual Warfare: A User’s Manual, with the pages open at some kind of prayer or incantation.

  I picked up the cat, went back up the stairs and confronted Mrs McNulty.

  ‘What have you been doing to her?’

  Mrs McNulty fiddled distractedly with the umbrella stand in her hallway.

  ‘MRS McNULTY!?’

  ‘Let’s just say she’ll be having no more problems with evil spirits,’ she declared, winking and tapping her nose, before proclaiming triumphantly: ‘There’ll be no more barking from her!’

  I held onto the cat tightly and hurried out the door. If anyone was barking, it was Mrs McNulty.

  Thursday July 19th

  I have received six items of post today, all of them bills. Among them was a reminder from Bloomer’s about my outstanding payment for Robinson Crusoe and an invoice from the hotel in Saffron Walden for undeclared mini-bar items from my final evening there. I fail to understand how the invoice can be so big when the fridge had seemed so small.

  I put the invoices under my bed in a box with all the other ones and got on instead with my party preparations.

  Friday July 20th

  Birthday Party, Alone

  Wearing my most daring tank top,

  I arrived downstairs fashionably late,

  at a quarter to eight;

  the invitations that I forgot to send out

  some days before

  clearly stated it was to begin at 7:34.

  I put on ‘Russians’ by Sting.

  It wasn’t long before the party

  was in full swing.

  Hanging out in the kitchen

  with the Cheese Singles

  I met the Pringles,

  whom I thought delightful,

  far better company than the rather nonchalant

  wild mushroom vol-au-vents.

  Six skittish tins of Fosters enticed me

  to play a game of Hold the Parcel

  (forty-two minutes – a new record),

  Musical Statues (until I got cramp

  attempting to out-statue a Victorian floor lamp),

  and finally, Sardine,

  in which I hid in the airing cupboard

  for three days, on an inexpertly folded sheet

  until I found myself.

  Nobody came, of course. The list of excuses seemed entirely valid: Mary had her grandchildren visiting; Kaylee was at a talk on domestic abuse; Chandrima had judo; Darren, salsa; Tomas was giving a lecture on Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations; Mrs McNulty was off to the bingo; the man at Number 29 dropped a note through my letter box to tell me he was going to be away on a course on effective planning and could I put his recycling out. Dylan rang to wish me a happy birthday, at least, but then apologised for not being able to make it. It is also Stuart’s birthday today, apparently, and Sophie had got them all tickets to a new West End musical.

  It was only Douglas that I felt disappointed with. He didn’t even bother to tell me that he couldn’t make it.

  As I sat beneath the disco ball in my shed, my growth mindset felt itself under severe pressure once more. But, thanks to a combination of vol-au-vents, cheap lager and The End of the Affair (which I have begun to re-read) I powered through. On reflection, this constitutes one of my more successful birthdays of recent years.

  Saturday July 21st

  Even my Saturday newspaper contains added Salt. He gazes smugly out at me from the Literature & Culture section, as he shares with the world what he’ll be reading on his holiday this summer. What a pretentious selection of books! They should put signs up on whatever Mediterranean beach he’ll be lying on:

  ‘READ AT YOUR OWN RISK’

  ‘SLIPPERY METAPHORS’

  ‘BEWARE: SUBMERGED MEANING’

  They’re not for the likes of me. I’ll follow my usual practice of leaving my reading to the lottery of a holiday cottage bookshelf: all those potboilers, page-turners and bodice-rippers, with their pages crimpled from sun-cream and god knows what other kinds of liquids.

  Dylan is off to Marbella for two weeks with Sophie and Stuart over the summer. I’d originally had hopes of something grand for the pair of us, too, but with another three bills arriving just this morning, I’ve had to downsize my dreams to a week in a cottage just outside Scarborough. Dylan took the news pretty well, all things considered.

  Sunday July 22nd

  Having now read The End of the Affair three times, I thought I’d attempt to get back on civil terms with the book group by sharing with them a deep analysis of its major themes, talking points, and literary strengths and weaknesses. I began work on the PowerPoint slides today. I think I shall print out packs for Thursday rather than bring along my own projector screen: how sad would that be!

  Taking inspiration from Kaylee’s First World War reading list, I’ve organised the slides into the following sections:

  Betrayal

  Guilt and shame

  The corrupting power of human love

  Suffering

  Death

  Irony

  All in all, we should be set for a fun evening.

  Monday July 23rd

  WE DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU

  TELEGRAMS IN THEIR THOUSANDS

  THE HEARTS OF LOVED ONES SINK

  ALL THAT WASTED PAPER

  ALL THAT WASTED INK

  A hashtag is trending in my heart and it goes by the name of #DouglasRIP.

  Chandrima called to tell me the news. He had met up with some fellow re-enactors last Thursday morning, she said, as part of a documentary commemorating the Battle of the Somme. Douglas was one of the first of the ‘Tommies’ out of the trenches but fell within seconds, amidst the smoke and pyrotechnics the production team had conjured up that m
orning. He lay there for four hours, face down in no-man’s-land, before one of his fellow re-enactors realised there was something wrong. It was thought he’d had a heart attack, perhaps triggered by the shock of a flare whistling overhead.

  It is so very sad but this is how he would have liked to have gone, said Chandrima, seeking to console. I know exactly what she means: Douglas in uniform, on the battlefield, fighting for Queen, Country and Television Production Company.

  Tuesday July 24th

  It was in a state of Douglaslessness that I loaded up the dishwasher and scoured the work surfaces. And, as I did so, I found myself meditating deeply on the meaning of existence and the nature of death. What if I was suddenly struck down as I re-ordered this cutlery basket, for instance; what might others say of me? I imagined my gravestone:

  BRIAN BILSTON

  He never quite managed

  to seize the day.

  But he sure stacked a dishwasher

  in an orderly way.

  I found myself asking questions that went straight to the very heart of things. Sensing that this might be prime poetry-writing territory, I wrote them down:

  a) what purpose serves a life?

  b) what constitutes a life well-lived?

  c) is happiness a social construct?

  d) is there any rinse-aid left?

  e) where do we go to when we die?

  I thought long and hard. This was difficult stuff and the search for answers exhausting. After a few hours my brain could take no more; I looked down at what I’d written in response.