Galehaut

Right.

I would like to write now about the Manor, the grounds, the laundry-maids, that obscene thing I dredged up from the moat, the time my tractor hit a low wall and unearthed stone and statuary originating from the local abbey (I'm sure the Lord thanked Henry VIII for that one), the laundry-maids, and that amusing thing that happened to me at the local pub.

To do that however, I need to be acquaint you with my little friend. "Galehaut" - my diary.

I'm having a quite normal and truthful day.

My diary. All is recorded. Small maps, copies of letters, sketches and confessions. I'm lovingly fondling it now - a small golden tome that I once thought was magic and might unite me with another. Francesca et Paolo. We'll see how that worked out, folks.

It is only 4 inches wide and six inches tall. Tiny script in many languages, but mainly manic faux Attic Greek. I defy anyone, even the lads at Bletchley with their fancy "computer", to be able to read it or even understand it. I need no key. I can leave it alone on any coffee table. The contents are all locked in my head.

Except for now, and I will share them with you soon, reader.

Last night, however, I wrestled with insomnia, neuralgia, and financial stress (Pay-friend? Is that what you call it?). I will be spending the rest of the day preparing my beloved Pepys (Maritime Edition) for sale, and perhaps photographing some pages of Galehaut for you to enjoy.

You'll see. You'll see.