Dear Diary:
Growing up, I was always told that keeping a diary is beneath a king. Well I, for one, do not believe it. They think it's not very kingly of me? Well then, oho! Challenge accepted. I'll show those ignorant oafs. I'll write the kingliest diary they've ever seen!
Speaking of which, where shall I begin? Oh yes.
Today was the first day I ventured above ground alone since I don't know when. I wanted some relaxation; enjoy the sunshine and all that. So I popped up incognito in one of the Southern Cantrevs- no, it does not matter which one, you clodpole!- and started to take a nice little stroll. And what do I get for my pains? Some brainless farmer wrapping his fat fingers around my neck, that's what! Oh, I can still feel his rough appendages digging into my throat.
And his voice! The man has no sense of volume control. He couldn't stop shouting to save his sorry life. I don't know how his wife survives his presence, the dolt.
Anyway, he popped out from behind some bushes and grabbed me by the throat. He started shaking me like I was some rabbit he'd caught and roaring something in my ear about granting him three wishes. Why is it always three? Can't any of these doofuses ever be satisfied with one wish? I was inclined to turn him into a mushroom on the spot, I tell you! Only my natural kindness and generosity made me listen to what he had to say- once he stopped trying to wring my neck, that is, which was only after he realized my face was turning blue from a lack of air.
It seems his barn's supply of seed had been stolen, and he was worried about feeding his family next winter. That and he wanted to get a new dress for his wife, but he couldn't afford it. And he wanted the latest plow he'd seen at the market. He'd have asked for a new farm too, I don't doubt if I hadn't put my foot down and said I'd only grant him those first three wishes.
The dress was easily taken care of. I summoned one from a Fair-Folk wardrobe. Couldn't give him a lousy, human-made substitute. No, my professional pride wouldn't allow it. I even increased the size of it so it'd fit his wife. And what do you think that ungrateful oaf did? He complained about it being too ostentatious! Too ostentatious, my eye! I told him right then and there to shut up and be happy, or I'd change my mind and not grant the other two wishes.
The plow was next. I humiliated myself for the fellow, I tell you. I went to the market personally and wasted valuable Fair Folk gold on that ungainly apparatus. And wouldn't you know it? He got angry because I'd bought the wrong one!
By that point, I was thoroughly enraged. I'd have left him in the lurch immediately if I hadn't spared a thought for his wife and children. I pictured the inevitable tirades they'd have to endure if I didn't give the farmer some new seed. My heart went out to them at once, of course; they must be pretty weary, living with that man day in and day out. I couldn't leave them in a spot of trouble like that- it wouldn't have been very kingly. So I conjured up a whole lot of seed to fill the barn. I admit I didn't leave the farmer any room to walk inside the barn; I had to teach him a lesson somehow. But it's not as if he has any right to complain. He'll be the envy of his neighbors, having that much seed to plant.
I've officially decided to ban wish-granting. I know I've talked about it before, but this time I mean it. No more! We Fair Folk have endured enough indignities from those ignoramuses who live on the surface.
