Dear Reader/Diary,

14 August: pop into charity shop, just for a look, whilst waiting to meet someone. Catch myself alphabetising the poetry books. Emerge with armful of Virago paperbacks from a time when they could design covers and a hardback edition of T** W***** o* T***** (redacted in case I give it to Harry; note: find time to read it first. Query: is tendency to read presents before giving, for quality control, noble?)

Since friend is three minutes late, presume plans are cancelled and go home to read The Diary of a Provincial Lady by E. M. Delafield.

15 August: In heaven with Delafield. Victoria Wood plus Barbara Pym, before both. Now see everything through eyes of aspiring writer living in Devonshire village between the wars, trying to be perfect mother, good speaker at WI meetings and feminist, without disturbing faultless wave set in hair.

Somehow share her preoccupations with bulbs, planted too late and disturbed by wayward cat or husband, deciphering poorly written letters from forgotten acquaintances who announce dropping in on their way to Cornwall (can Cook be persuaded to provide not-too-stale cake? Best not to ask – she can smell fear), upsetting daughter’s incomprehensible French governess, losing whole afternoons to brief visits from Our Vicar’s Wife and (mis)managing stretched household finances, penchant for new hats notwithstanding.

16 August: Am onto the third of the four diaries. In the second, Provincial Lady accidentally rents a flat in London. We’ve all done it. Provincial Husband has no say. There, she is disturbed from writing masterpiece on Modern Freedom in Marriage by window-cleaner putting stalwart arm clean through window. (Not to mention by Pamela Pringle, formerly Pamela Templer-Tate, formerly Pamela Stevenson, formerly Pamela Warburton. Some people have more hours in the day.)

In the third, she finds herself on a lecture tour of America, where she discovers that afternoon tea parties consist of interesting sandwiches and very strong cocktails. (“I obediently drink mine and wonder what Our Vicar’s Wife would say if she could see me now.”)

While she freezes at a ‘football’ game in wintry Boston, no one is able to enter Heronry without explaining that it is Still Hot. Parcelforce man greets me with, ‘I’m too hairy for this.’ Since own hair in this humidity makes Brian May’s look a little flat, can sympathise. DPD man replies to my enquiries as to health with sad nod, releasing a drip onto the screen I am supposed to sign. Evri man hands me several damp packages and passes out. Use plant-mister to revive him. Wonder how they would all fare at a whist drive with Our Vicar’s Wife.

Later read Brian (not May) by Jeremy Cooper. Gorgeous novel about a man who goes to the BFI every night. Post-retirement he increases from one to two films per day. Changes in the café at the Royal Festival Hall cause distress, ultimately overcome. It is years before he learns the names of the other ‘film buffs’ he chats to, more years before he dares disagree with any of them and decades before he acknowledges that one has become a friend. Marvellous book.

Make notes on nearest paper of all the films I want to see as a result and composers to investigate. Hope accountant can still decipher tax return.

17 August: Experience of reading Brian almost convinces me I should go to see The Summer Book. Glenn Close, after all. Decide cannot risk ruining magical images conjured by Tove Jansson’s sparing writing and instead return to old friend in novel form.

Even better than I remember. The grandmother is funny and creative, the granddaughter, Sophia, tyrannical. The Finnish islands hum with eider ducks and secrets in caves and forests. Storms, like visitors, bring excitement and terror. Through it all, without needing to say so, the family finds a way to live after the loss of Sophia’s mother. (Mem.: read every summer. Book trip to Finland? Consider what headwear needed.)

18 August: In preparation for seeing David Eldridge’s adaptation of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, reread le Carré. Thoroughly enjoy myself trying to keep up with elaborate espionage plot involving double, triple and quadruple (is this back to double again?) agents. How can main spy, Leamas, manage this when many whiskies deep? As it is we are both several steps behind Control. By the end am only slightly clearer who the bad guys are. (Query: is George Smiley?)

19 August: enjoy a slower pace, though as many threads to unravel, in reading Fancy Work: Unpicking Past Lives by Alice Hattrick, a book about embroidery – not for many years the enterprise of women, May Morris – daughter of William, generally exploited by him, and author’s own mother – a patient force. Suspect she and grandmother in The Summer Book kindred spirits.

Picked up Hattrick’s book with Patch Work by Claire Wilcox in mind (recall adoring, among books of the year thus far?). Have convinced self that sartorial concerns are in fact acts of resistance. (Note: Avoid obvious joke about author of Fancy Work’s surname but do research courses in millinery – likely to be sensible investment.)

20 August: Order everything else can find by Delafield despite bank account reflecting expenditure recently unhinged. Equally, trench coat and deer stalker to attend le Carré play surely required.
(Mem.: today is Father’s birthday. Hope proofreading newsletter is present he wanted. Failing that, buy liquorice. Check with him if can get away with newsletter in style of Diary of PL. Hope he says yes as no other ideas.)

21 August: try not to send newsletter too early; read Fancy Work until more recipients likely to be awake. Enjoy her comments on the contradictions of keeping a diary, documenting things which one also wants to remain private. Hope no one breaks padlock on mine and discovers Truth.
(Mem.: Must remind Our Vicar’s Wife and others of future dates for diary, including one space left for Sunday Sessions: The Woolf of Regent Street. Query: Can I persuade Cook to provide American style of afternoon tea for these? WWMDD?*)

Hope weekend not too windy for new straw hat,
Lizzie

*What Would Mrs Dalloway Do?