Okay, these little diary entries started as an obssession I had with reading The Secret Diary of William Byrd of Westover, who was a 17th century American nobleman and settler of Virginia (see http://www.csustan.edu/english/reuben/pal/chap2/byrd.html). I just love the way this chap elloquently waxes on the most mundane of day to day activities, seguaing between the weather, fantasies about a family friend, what he just ate for lunch and the guilt he feels when he neglects to say his prayers; so for a period of time I decided to experiment with writing my own diary entries ala Byrd style. Here's a sample

The Diary of Greg August 2005...

28^th August 2005

I rose at 6:30ish to hear the World Service coming over my radio which I found to be rather unsavory; for there is only so much a man can take of the latest descriptions of African genocide. What greeted me in the living room enroute to the bathroom did nothing to shake my mind from melancholy: damn cat Cleo had deposited a dismembered animal on the hearth again! This crime is punishable by denial of breakfast privlages and a sharp shoo out the back door for cat Cleo. Next I reluctantly exercised my morning ablutions, and while cleaning my teeth I dared to let my eyes wonder to my naval—usually an area off limits—but today I could see that the effects of the new running regime were paying off. Teeth brushed, face scraggle shaved, I decided to exorcise my inner demons by enacting self abuse over the unshakable female form dominating my thoughts.

Mind cleansed, body washed and refreshed I emerged from the bathroom to find my kitchen in bad order. The latest fruit fly insurgency had taken up residence in the compost bucket and due to its overnight pro-creative success was expanding to other areas of the kitchen. I immediately set to crushing this insect invasion with the compost’s removal. My efforts to stealthily steal away to the compost bin outside were thwarted by one of my beady eyed goats awaiting his morning grain, and who on sighting me set all the others in a braying chorus. I then set about the morning ritual: pulled out the Costa Rican French Roast from the freezer, gave the ceremonial sniff, threw my Coop Supernatural granola in a bowl and devoured oats, all washed down with a fine cup of cappuccino. While savouring my crunchy mouthfuls I fantasized about having our good president’s ranch over-run by herds of goats who were braying, and relieving themselves over his podium and his person while he tried in vain to deliver his latest “Good News in Iraq”, which was drowned out from the incessant braying. I had good thoughts, good vibes and set about the rest of my day determined not to let life’s annoyances shake my spirit.