The Diary of a Nobody

The Diary of a Nobody

"Why should I not publish my diary? I have often seen reminiscences of people I have never even heard of, and I fail to see — because I do not happen to be a 'Somebody' — why my diary should not be interesting. My only regret is that I did not commence it when I was a youth."

This is a daily weblog version of The Diary of a Nobody, written by George Grossmith and originally serialised in Punch magazine in 1888 and 1889. Bringing Charles Pooter into the 21st century, his diary is now available as a selection of weblog-style RSS feeds which you can subscribe to, via a feed aggregator, or through certain browsers. The diary restarts on April 3 each year.

You can either:-

  • Subscribe to the 2015-as-1888 feed, which is running in real-time, delivering an entry on whichever days Pooter has written one, as if 2015 were 1888.
  • Subscribe to the daily feed, starting today. This will give you one entry per day, starting from the beginning, and irrespective of the gaps where Pooter is busy or has had his diary damaged. If you want to start at a different point, or join someone else who's reading it, just change the date in the URL.
Charles Pooter

May 26.—Left the shirts to be repaired at Trillip’s.  I said to him: “I’m ’fraid they are frayed.”  He said, without a smile: “They’re bound to do that, sir.”  Some people seem to be quite destitute of a sense of humour.

Charles Pooter

May 25.—Carrie brought down some of my shirts and advised me to take them to Trillip’s round the corner.  She said: “The fronts and cuffs are much frayed.”  I said without a moment’s hesitation: “I’m ’frayed they are.”  Lor! how we roared.  I thought we should never stop laughing.  As I happened to be sitting next the driver going to town on the ’bus, I told him my joke about the “frayed” shirts.  I thought he would have rolled off his seat.  They laughed at the office a good bit too over it.

Charles Pooter

May 24.—Carrie back.  Hoorah!  She looks wonderfully well, except that the sun has caught her nose.

Charles Pooter

May 23.—Received strange note from Gowing; he said: “Offended? not a bit, my boy—I thought you were offended with me for losing my temper.  Besides, I found after all, it was not my poor old uncle’s stick you painted.  It was only a shilling thing I bought at a tobacconist’s.  However, I am much obliged to you for your handsome present all same.”

Charles Pooter

May 22.—Purchased a new stick mounted with silver, which cost seven-and-sixpence (shall tell Carrie five shillings), and sent it round with nice note to Gowing.

Charles Pooter

May 21.—The last week or ten days terribly dull, Carrie being away at Mrs. James’s, at Sutton.  Cummings also away.  Gowing, I presume, is still offended with me for black enamelling his stick without asking him.

Charles Pooter

May 16.—Absolutely disgusted on opening the Blackfriars Bi-weekly News of to-day, to find the following paragraph: “We have received two letters from Mr. and Mrs. Charles Pewter, requesting us to announce the important fact that they were at the Mansion House Ball.”  I tore up the paper and threw it in the waste-paper basket.  My time is far too valuable to bother about such trifles.

Charles Pooter

May 12.—Got a single copy of the Blackfriars Bi-weekly News.  There was a short list of several names they had omitted; but the stupid people had mentioned our names as “Mr. and Mrs. C. Porter.”  Most annoying!  Wrote again and I took particular care to write our name in capital letters, POOTER, so that there should be no possible mistake this time.

Charles Pooter

May 9.—Still a little shaky, with black specks.  The Blackfriars Bi-weekly News contains a long list of the guests at the Mansion House Ball.  Disappointed to find our names omitted, though Farmerson’s is in plainly enough with M.L.L. after it, whatever that may mean.  More than vexed, because we had ordered a dozen copies to send to our friends.  Wrote to the Blackfriars Bi-weekly News, pointing out their omission.

Carrie had commenced her breakfast when I entered the parlour.  I helped myself to a cup of tea, and I said, perfectly calmly and quietly: “Carrie, I wish a little explanation of your conduct last night.”

She replied, “Indeed! and I desire something more than a little explanation of your conduct the night before.”

I said, coolly: “Really, I don’t understand you.”

Carrie said sneeringly: “Probably not; you were scarcely in a condition to understand anything.”

I was astounded at this insinuation and simply ejaculated: “Caroline!”

She said: “Don’t be theatrical, it has no effect on me.  Reserve that tone for your new friend, Mister Farmerson, the ironmonger.”

I was about to speak, when Carrie, in a temper such as I have never seen her in before, told me to hold my tongue.  She said: “Now I’m going to say something!  After professing to snub Mr. Farmerson, you permit him to snub you, in my presence, and then accept his invitation to take a glass of champagne with you, and you don’t limit yourself to one glass.  You then offer this vulgar man, who made a bungle of repairing our scraper, a seat in our cab on the way home.  I say nothing about his tearing my dress in getting in the cab, nor of treading on Mrs. James’s expensive fan, which you knocked out of my hand, and for which he never even apologised; but you smoked all the way home without having the decency to ask my permission.  That is not all!  At the end of the journey, although he did not offer you a farthing towards his share of the cab, you asked him in.  Fortunately, he was sober enough to detect, from my manner, that his company was not desirable.”

Goodness knows I felt humiliated enough at this; but, to make matters worse, Gowing entered the room, without knocking, with two hats on his head and holding the garden-rake in his hand, with Carrie’s fur tippet (which he had taken off the downstairs hall-peg) round his neck, and announced himself in a loud, coarse voice: “His Royal Highness, the Lord Mayor!”  He marched twice round the room like a buffoon, and finding we took no notice, said: “Hulloh! what’s up?  Lovers’ quarrel, eh?”

There was a silence for a moment, so I said quietly: “My dear Gowing, I’m not very well, and not quite in the humour for joking; especially when you enter the room without knocking, an act which I fail to see the fun of.”

Gowing said: “I’m very sorry, but I called for my stick, which I thought you would have sent round.”  I handed him his stick, which I remembered I had painted black with the enamel paint, thinking to improve it.  He looked at it for a minute with a dazed expression and said: “Who did this?”

I said: “Eh, did what?”

He said: “Did what?  Why, destroyed my stick!  It belonged to my poor uncle, and I value it more than anything I have in the world!  I’ll know who did it.”

I said: “I’m very sorry.  I dare say it will come off.  I did it for the best.”

Gowing said: “Then all I can say is, it’s a confounded liberty; and I would add, you’re a bigger fool than you look, only that’s absolutely impossible.”

Charles Pooter

May 8.—I woke up with a most terrible head-ache.  I could scarcely see, and the back of my neck was as if I had given it a crick.  I thought first of sending for a doctor; but I did not think it necessary.  When up, I felt faint, and went to Brownish’s, the chemist, who gave me a draught.  So bad at the office, had to get leave to come home.  Went to another chemist in the City, and I got a draught.  Brownish’s dose seems to have made me worse; have eaten nothing all day.  To make matters worse, Carrie, every time I spoke to her, answered me sharply—that is, when she answered at all.

In the evening I felt very much worse again and said to her: “I do believe I’ve been poisoned by the lobster mayonnaise at the Mansion House last night;” she simply replied, without taking her eyes from her sewing: “Champagne never did agree with you.”  I felt irritated, and said: “What nonsense you talk; I only had a glass and a half, and you know as well as I do—”  Before I could complete the sentence she bounced out of the room.  I sat over an hour waiting for her to return; but as she did not, I determined I would go to bed.  I discovered Carrie had gone to bed without even saying “good-night”; leaving me to bar the scullery door and feed the cat.  I shall certainly speak to her about this in the morning.

The Diary of a Nobody is the fictitious diary of Charles Pooter, written by George Grossmith and originally serialised in Punch magazine in 1888 and 1889.
The text of this version is taken from the Gutenberg etext, and the weblog format was engineered by Kevan Davis (initially a straight weblog in 2004, then rewritten as an auto RSS generator in April 2007).