January 4th 1792
I am surprising myself in that I did not expect to be writing in here again so soon. I really hope it is not going to become a habit, I would hate to have to admit to life being so tiresome that I have to resort to a dependence on a book of paper. However, it seems as though things may indeed be tending in that direction and therefore I feel I should prepare myself for any eventuality.
Nothing has happened today. Nothing. Oh I mean we had callers, but I would hardly constitute Lord and Lady Forecastle and their daughter Alexandra as anything even nearing stimulating company. Only a year older than myself and betrothed to the son of the Duke of Chadwick - a fact which Lady Forecastle seems to fear people may forget if the way she alludes to it at least ten times an hour is anything to measure by - and the most uninteresting individual I have ever had the misfortune to come across in my life. Needless to say, the only event of even marginal excitement to have taken place in the last twenty-four hours was when Pippy decided to take a fancy to his Lordship's periwig - a rather amusing spectacle to say the least. There was of course the added benefit that in the ensuing ruckus I was able to escape from the room under the pretence of removing the delinquent bird, and therefore was saved from what would have been yet further hours of discussing the price of hat-pins and where the best places to purchase silk are. I always said that parrot would have its uses.
There is a glimmer of hope though, as on Sunday we go to the theatre. We have not attended as much as I would have liked to of late, everyone has been busy with one thing or another and perish the thought that I would actually be allowed to have any freedom and travel anywhere alone. But Charles has spoken with Mother and has convinced her to allow him to take me to see Cymon at the King's, the fact she has agreed giving grounds for the suspicion I have been harbouring for a while now, that she has decided upon him as a future son-in-law. I would usually have protested, but it serves my purposes well enough, and I am sure I can manage to endure an evening in his company if it means I have the pleasure of indulging in one of my favourite pastimes. I hear it is an interesting piece, and having enjoyed several of Garrick's other works, I do not feel that I shall be disappointed. And even if I am, the chance to escape from the house for an evening is certainly nothing to sniff at. If only it were with someone a little more inspiring.
It is late, I think I shall sleep now.
I am surprising myself in that I did not expect to be writing in here again so soon. I really hope it is not going to become a habit, I would hate to have to admit to life being so tiresome that I have to resort to a dependence on a book of paper. However, it seems as though things may indeed be tending in that direction and therefore I feel I should prepare myself for any eventuality.
Nothing has happened today. Nothing. Oh I mean we had callers, but I would hardly constitute Lord and Lady Forecastle and their daughter Alexandra as anything even nearing stimulating company. Only a year older than myself and betrothed to the son of the Duke of Chadwick - a fact which Lady Forecastle seems to fear people may forget if the way she alludes to it at least ten times an hour is anything to measure by - and the most uninteresting individual I have ever had the misfortune to come across in my life. Needless to say, the only event of even marginal excitement to have taken place in the last twenty-four hours was when Pippy decided to take a fancy to his Lordship's periwig - a rather amusing spectacle to say the least. There was of course the added benefit that in the ensuing ruckus I was able to escape from the room under the pretence of removing the delinquent bird, and therefore was saved from what would have been yet further hours of discussing the price of hat-pins and where the best places to purchase silk are. I always said that parrot would have its uses.
There is a glimmer of hope though, as on Sunday we go to the theatre. We have not attended as much as I would have liked to of late, everyone has been busy with one thing or another and perish the thought that I would actually be allowed to have any freedom and travel anywhere alone. But Charles has spoken with Mother and has convinced her to allow him to take me to see Cymon at the King's, the fact she has agreed giving grounds for the suspicion I have been harbouring for a while now, that she has decided upon him as a future son-in-law. I would usually have protested, but it serves my purposes well enough, and I am sure I can manage to endure an evening in his company if it means I have the pleasure of indulging in one of my favourite pastimes. I hear it is an interesting piece, and having enjoyed several of Garrick's other works, I do not feel that I shall be disappointed. And even if I am, the chance to escape from the house for an evening is certainly nothing to sniff at. If only it were with someone a little more inspiring.
It is late, I think I shall sleep now.