Brother Lightfoote's Journal The Recollections of an Eighteenth-Century Gentleman of The Craft DATE: August 28th 1782 Feast of St. Augustine of Hippo WEATHER: Stormy OUTLOOK: Stormier

He who is tired of London is tired of life. So says Doctor Samuel ‘See what a Big Dictionary I’ve got’ Johnson. If one might suggest the first addition to the second edition, let it be:

LAXATOGRAPHY
n. s. Purging - words of meaning; speech of colour; language of poetry, etcetera.
c.f. Procrasturbation.

According to Johnson, Lightfoote is suicidal, yet it is not myself that I am desirous of doing away with, rather the legion of louts and low life who currently make living in the metropolis unbearable. Until recently, our capital city was a capital place to be. Now, suddenly, London is full to bursting with a plethora of pultrons, pantaloons, pimps and pigwidgeons, every one of them beating a path to Lightfoote’s door. They all come here. How do they find me?
    This very morning I was awoken at eight o’clock by stones being thrown at my bedroom window. I rose, for the first time, to ascertain the cause. A man was standing in the street below, smiling up at me. ‘Good morning, Sir,’ said he, ‘I trust that I haven’t disturbed you.’ ‘In whom do you put your trust?’ I enquired. ‘In the Metropolitan Insurance Company,’ he replied, quick as lightning, ‘and so should you!’ Now I knew what he was - and what he wasn’t – and what to do about it. ‘Against what should I be insured, do you think?’ I asked. He stepped closer. ‘Fire and flood, loss and damage, personal injury, robbery, acts of God…’ I emptied the chamber pot over him and shut the window.
    I decided to bathe and drank a pot of coffee whilst a bath was drawn for me and Mrs. Lightfoote sketched my shortcomings. They are legion. Madame withdrew, taking the maid with her, and left the world to bathos and to me…

Wash me throughly from my wickedness;
And forgive me all my sin…

I was just getting into my soapy, psalmy stride when there was a report. Someone was knocking at the door. I rose, dripping, for the second time, to enquire who sought admission. It was the postboy, with the post. I arrived at the front door wrapped in a towel. The grubby urchin grinned at me. ‘Having a bath, were you?’ he enquired. I answered with an indulgent chuckle, a toss of the head and a knee to the groin.
    There were no less than seven communications: three bills; an offer of insurance; an invitation to subscribe to a monthly magazine devoted to popular ballads - including sheet music - entitled The Minstrel’s Cycle; a note addressed to a Mr. Litefart, informing that person, who lives somewhere in my house, apparently, that he had, possibly, won the State Lottery of Alsace, and, finally, a summons to attend the Installation Meeting of the Stonic Lodge followed by a bumper supper at DeBoulay’s. The latter brightened my mood considerably. I dried myself, dressed, and then addressed the frugal fare that had been provided for me: cold guinea fowl, quails’ eggs, Cheshire cheese, York Ham, veal pie, some coarse bread, a few grapes and a flagon of porter beer – hardly a meal.
    Nonetheless I was glad to be able to sit down undisturbed – and then the bell rang; I ignored it. It rang again, more insistently; I ignored it, more determinedly. It rang again, continuously, accompanied by loud hammering upon the door. I drained the flagon and rose, for the third time, to see what the blasted matter was. It was a woman.
    She wore blue, I wore grey. ‘Good morning. Are you Mister Lightfoote?’ she enquired. ‘Indeed,’ I replied, through gritted teeth, ‘and good morning to you, my dear. What may I do for you, or indeed to you?’ ‘Oh nothing,’ she laughed, ‘This is a courtesy call!’ ‘On the contrary Miss,’ I corrected her – as the image of correcting her with a riding crop formed, pleasingly, in my mind – ‘This is a nuisance call!’ ‘Oh no, please don’t think that, kind sir. We are in your area and I was wondering if you would care to install a conservatory.’ ‘Just a moment,’ I retorted, ‘wait there…’ I raced upstairs and grabbed my copy of Johnson’s Dictionary. By the time I got back to the door I’d found the place.

CONSERVATORY
n. s. A place where anything is kept in a manner proper to its peculiar nature. Bacon.

When I read this to her, she appeared perplexed but I reassured her rapidly. ‘We already have a place to keep bacon, but we call it the pantry; books, we keep in the library; linen in the linen cupboard; wine in the cellar; clothes in the wardrobe… I doubt we have room for another conservatory.’ ‘But where do you go when you want to be quiet, to contemplate, to be undisturbed?’ she pleaded. ‘Why, the privy, of course!’ I cried. ‘Goodbye!’
    I closed the door, returned Johnson to the shelf and retired to the closet aforementioned with a copy of The Gazette. I had just noted that someone is asking three pounds for a house in Fulham when there came three distinct knocks at the door. It was Mrs. Lightfoote, newly returned. ‘How long are you going to be in there.’ she demanded to know. ‘I’m desperate.’
    Minutes later I was on my way out, heading for DeBoulay’s – a place where I might be kept in a manner proper to my peculiar nature. My Lady’s voice floated down to me as I strode into the street. ‘Where are you going?’ quoth she. ‘To the conservatory, my dear,’ I called back – and was gone.