COMPETITION
The unrecorded
Jaspistos
In Competition No. 1546 you were asked for an imaginary extract from the diary of the wife of a famous or infamous man. There were more Patient Griseldas than shrews among your wives. What a cata- logue of suffering! 'Keeping kings in cages is fine, I daresay, if you don't have to do the mucking out. Messy creatures, these royals'. (E.O. Parrott's Zenocrate); ' "The chappie who writes for all those calendars" was all Plum said when he'd unwrapped my birthday present of Emerson's works' (George Moor's Lady Wodehouse); 'I might try hanging some mirrors around to see if I can get him interested in his own face again' (Noel Petty's Saskia exhausted by posing for Rembrandt); 'I can't say a word to him for fear of otir private lives ending up in The Spectator' (B.C. Pires's Mrs Jaspistos). Even Xanthippe suffered in June F. Langfield's scenario: 'S. came back with sausages bought from seller highly recommended by Aristophanes. Put them on brazier. They exploded.'
The prizewinners printed below earn i15 apiece, and the bonus bottle of Chateau Cantemerle 1979, kindly donated by Asshetons, Solicitors, 99 Aldwych, Lon-
don WC2, goes to Dick Penderring.
There goes my Samuel down Mincing Lane with a gait to match, although he'd call it a swagger. Fancy wearing his best coat and breeches to the Admiralty's dockyard. There must be a wench in the offing — and that's why he insisted on our maid washing and dressing his hair last night.
I can read him like a book, and if I couldn't, I can always read his diary. Vieux con, thinks he's the only one with the French language . . . and the way he portrays himself would make a cat laugh!
Last night he came rushing in from a scuffle with the maid in the kitchen, his ears red and smarting from a good boxing. Today in his diary he exults over 'prospects of paradise'.
Sauce for the goose. Soon it will be time for my lecon particuliere' with Maitre Jules who works me `A` coups de verge' . . and so to bed! (Dick Penderring) Monday: Raining cats and dogs. Three rows of wet washing I had to bring in. Noah nowhere to be seen as per usual when he's wanted. In the shed with his ferrets. Tuesday: He let slip he's got pigeons as well now. I won't go in. The hours you waste in that shed, I said. I'm doing some woodwork, he says, all mysterious. In that case you can woodwork the kitchen table leg. It's been wobbling for years, I said. He didn't answer. Still raining. Wednesday: We've got mice. Two I saw. Could have screamed till I was blue in the face. Noah wouldn't hear me. You want a couple of cats, he says at dinner time. He says it to annoy. He knows I can't abide animals. It's your .job to get a mousetrap, I said. They're all God's creatures, he says, in that irritating way he's got. Still
raining . . . (Jacqueline Gemmell)
To my journal, my companion during the long hours when Mr B. is from home with those pages upon which are recorded the very mur- murs of his idol. How often I ponder upon the worth of these scribblings. Mr B. returned home tonight in low spirits, truly discountenanced after the great literary Leviathan (as the doctor is called), having discoursed at length upon the merits of Miss Burney's Evelina and even acted out some passages in pert feminine style, left Mr B. quite bemused. He has recounted to me how he asked in confusion and despair, 'BLit what is a Brangton?' Instant mockery and ridicule fell upon him for his ignorance, and he now sits
disconsolate by our hearth moaning, 'But what is it? What is a Brangton that I should be counted such an ignoramus?' I conceal a smile, drop my pen and hasten to mix my poor B. a comforting . . (Peggy Sandars)
Thurs: Shocking day. Christopher sore out of temper; cannot get his perspectives right. Must be designing another church. They bring out the demon in him. Lord! what a misery they do cause our household! Examine perspectives. Looks like dome; seems v. pretty to me. Cook serves greasy mutton, children holler abomin- ably, Christopher stamps off in a fine rage. Returns at midnight and blackens my eye. Fri.: Christopher full of remorse. Swears he'll never touch another drop, plays with children. Children v. frightened. Much discomfited to discover gaming bills in Christopher's bureau. Lord! An't claret and fisticuffs vice enough? Sat.: Christopher in tears. Cannot get sound in wretched dome aright. 'At this rate 'twill sound like a poxy whispering gallery!' Usher him to bed with dish of warm chocolate. Pray earnestly to good St Paul to guide Christopher's pen
tomorrow. (Veronica Pond) Sunday 30th January 1910.
Hawley most attentive today. Crescent frozen over. H. prepared winter salad with one of his excellent dressings for lunch. Then down to the cellar to continue work on his mushroom bed. All floor tiles now removed — ready to start planting. Lay down all afternoon, operation scar again painful. Hawley made supper with re- freshing tisane — but still unwell. We sat In bedroom looking at my theatre cuttings. Read newspapers and H. explained wireless inven- tion. Doesn't think it will be successful. Told him hp could give his helpful secretary, Ethel, my old fur stole. Might go over to the States to
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