…And you thought I'd forgotten about them, didn't you…?! This instalment owes acknowledgements to Shelley, Byron, Keats, Wordsworth, Shakespeare and, er, Eminem - yes, I know Jehan read French poetry, but my knowledge of Baudelaire and Villon consists solely of what I've been told by French literature students I was trying to chat up. :oP

This Miserable Diary Belongs To: Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire

September 14th, 1827
University of Paris bit of a let-down in general. Parisian ladies apparently far keener to sleep with me than listen to me recite Prometheus Unbound. Have spent Freshers Week weeping into pot of flowers and sighing theatrically. Woe is me.

September 15th, 1827
Have met young deity-esque flaxen-haired revolutionary who walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, with high-minded intentions to get us all shot. Cannot be arsed to fall head over heels in love as have done that six times already this week, but would not mind getting into his pants in return for writing elegiac speeches about the blood of angry men.

October 5th, 1827
Noticed the follicularly-challenged one and the delicately-constitutioned one feeling each other up under the table at Café Musain last night. Went all misty-eyed – all this comradely band-of-brothers bonding so terribly moving. Feel a rondeau coming on.

February 19th, 1828
Have noticed Combeferre being especially touchy-feely recently. Thought this v. sweet and comradely and was just about to dedicate villanelle to him when he asked me whether I was responsible for writing that line about there being a world of PVC beyond the barricade. Later transpired as simple misapprehension on Marius' part. Such pervyness in one so young! I blame Courfeyrac.

February 21st, 1828
Rather wish I hadn't denied authorship of PVC line as Combeferre looking terribly disappointed. Despite what Enjolras says, think we should care about his lonely soul; cannot really be arsed to strive towards larger goal anyway.

March 3rd, 1828
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense as though of hemlock I had drunk: potted geraniums wilting. Woe is me.

May 16th, 1829
Played flute to rapturous applause at Musain but was v. confused when Combeferre later asked whether I'd mind spanking him with it. He claimed it was simply a game for Rich Young Boys to play. Cannot recall this happening at my school – must be one of those arts/science divide things.

November 24th, 1829
Caught Grantaire looking somewhat lasciviously at Enjolras' bottom while doing his singing-on-a-table routine. Queried him about it with all tact and discretion possible; he merely pointed at aforementioned bottom and said it was better than an o-per-a.

April 14th, 1830
Finding it near-impossible to remain strong in face of possibility of geraniums dying. Have composed endless cathartic Spenserian stanzas reflecting on fragility of life which Combeferre suggests I recite while sitting on his knee wearing only a laurel wreath. Terribly sweet really. Woe is me, all the same.

April 15th, 1830
Tied to chair with cravat by Combeferre today after half-arsed attempt to fling self melodramatically into Seine over geranium tragedy. After an hour he decided I was no longer danger to self and suggested I tie him up instead. Least I could do, really.

April 28th, 1831
Enjolras kept asking if anyone noticed anything different about him today. Turns out he's had his hair feathered. Really cannot believe Enjolras would go to such lengths just because Marius is apparently showing interest in a girl – I'm supposed to be the pansy round here, after all.

April 30th, 1831
Have had blond highlights put in my hair. Enjolras still infinitely prettier than me but does not write poetry so still have camp-as-a-row-of-tents market well and truly cornered. Shall I compare me to a summer's day? I art more lovely and more effeminate.

June 14th, 1831
Combeferre pacing about in white wig and halo muttering something about how they chained him and left him for dead just for stealing a mouthful of bread. Has obviously gone insane, but is rhyming so well it seems a shame to dissuade him.

Smartarse.

June 5th, 1832
Wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of people bombing down Rue de la Chanvrerie.

Oooo, had forgotten about Lamarque's funeral plus subsequent insurrection. Feel much sighing and/or eulogising about comradely band-of-brothers carbine-spanking coming on.

Later
Overheard Combeferre ask Enjolras if he could use his tricolour sash to tie Fearless Leader to his bedposts and am glad he is getting back into the spirit of things after that "I'm Jean Valjean, yes I'm the real Valjean, all the other Jean Valjeans are just imitating" debacle.

Later
Immensely concerned about health of geraniums in my absence. Will the world remember them when they fall? Could it be their death means nothing at all? Woe is me.

Evening
Fled from barricade in tears after heartlessly apathetic reaction to poetry reading. Off to see if latest sonnet receives more appreciation from National Guard.

Later
Was given standing ovation by National Guard. Feel all warm and fuzzy. Am not quite sure what they meant when they asked me whether I could think of anything that rhymed with "firing squad" though.

One minute later
Oh, I get it. Tsk, some people just have no poetry in their souls.