According to my father, I have again failed his initial directive. Yesterday after stating "I should have known", he suggested increasing the word count of future entries to two-hundred, a method he usually uses. I dutifully complied, making an entry of exactly two-hundred words later that evening. These two hundred words did not detail my feelings sufficiently, in his estimation.
"Those were my feelings." I replied.
"Write about yourself, not me. It's a diary, not a damn advice column." Was his rebuttal.
"What is an advice column?" I asked.
"It's… never mind. Ask me again when we're in Enbarr and I'll show you the newspapers."
"Is that the company's next destination after Remire?"
"We're keeping the company here, actually. One of our old Lieutenants, the girl you replaced, is going to train with the troops for a while. She's on winter holiday and visiting her relatives here."
"Understood."
"You're not curious about her at all, are you?"
"I trust your judgement."
"Of course you do. We're drilling as soon as she arrives. Maybe another week given the roads."
"Where is she coming from?" I asked.
My father observed a pregnant pause.
"... Don't worry about that. Anyway..."
I am not worried about it.
