Extracts from the Plague Diary of Mark ne-Francois-Pepys
April 3rd
The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, and the third hour of drowsy morning name. And mightily troubled with a looseness from last night’s vension vindaloo,
1/10
April 3rd
The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, and the third hour of drowsy morning name. And mightily troubled with a looseness from last night’s vension vindaloo,
1/10
and feeling for a chamber-pott, and cursing that Hartley-Brewer had forgot to put one there, I was forced to rise and shit in the chimney twice; and so to bed and was very well again. Lay long & Hartley-Brewer brings sugar-puffs in Monster to the garret & like Nostrildamus
2/10
2/10
makes claim that as deficiency of smell be a symptom of Corona, she hath the plague not. Observing her Juicy Couture tracksuit & Uggs it occurred that absence of taste also be a symptom, but I detained the notion lest she become vexed & spend the day slamming things again.
3/10
3/10
We receive fresh intelligence that Deptford and Greenwich are now afresh exceedingly afflicted with the sickness and a million across the globe. Gazing from my garret I did yearn for the carefree days when I didn’t have to wash hands and just roamed the M25
4/10
4/10
on my horse Evoque 2.0, visiting the stables at Clacket Lane and Thurrock to sit in the massage chairs and play fruit machines. Enjoyed a government sanctioned stroll to the river that I might see Lady Truss, and successfully, but did note her giggling most candidly
5/10
5/10
with my friend Steve Basher Baker, and struggling to imagine reasonable circumstance wherein they happened to find themselves in the same pedal swan sharing a KFC Bargain Bucket, was mightily distressed and sent both a vex-message. Further alarmed to note their laughter
6/10
6/10
and call of ‘We can see your tin hat Mark’ to the bottle-bank in which I’d secreted myself. Overtaken by a novel sensation, I believe anxiety, I to Saint Patriots where Rev Coles did take time to listen to my apprehensions and pronounce that I have Truss issues and after
7/10
7/10
saying a prayer to patron saint of patriots Francois of Assisi, home to unwind with my bomb-disposal training of repeatedly stopping the microwave on 0.01 and shouting ‘clear’, and so immersed forgot a Fray Bentos in the oven and set kitchen alight,
8/10
8/10
& upon launching the flaming tin into garden was called pieromaniac by Self who was at staring through my letterbox again. Evening, and recognising melancholy, that I had got into my Spitfire pyjamas early, Hartley-Brewer did cheer me with signeture bottle of Swan Perignon
9/10
9/10
and merrily practiced dance moves on Tik Tok with Dermot O’Leary until taking out my bins, and as the whole streete gave me ovation & I ran around my astroturfe for a clap of honour, blessed be God, my mood was restored. Strawberry Slush Puppy. Bed.
