(#3) Dear Diary...

Dear Diary,

 

Today my mamma and I went to visit the Hales, a pecksy-wecksy family from down South. I must say, I'm rather appalled at the state of their home and living. I could sum up millions of things, but, to start with, they did not have a piano. Imagine, Diary - if you can imagine, for I doubt that you can - to have a life without a piano! I know I could not live without a piano. I am a very musical young lady, with outstanding talent - people say so, you know - and life without a piano seems to me horrendous, appalling and absolutely miserable. That, I suppose, proves that I'm extremely musical, does it not?

 

Anyhow, I was quite appalled to see they didn't own a piano. I told them so, but their faces remained listless and uninterested. Oh dear me! I was quite appalled.

 

Their parlour is about half the size of our hall! Imagine living in such a cramped way, day after day! Oh, that coincidentally rhymed! I am quite giddy. I'm always giddy when I accidently rhyme.

 

Margaret Hale, the daughter of the family is such a stick-in-the-mud! She hardly spoke a civil word and did not know anything about Paris and the latest fashions. She was insipid and dull, whilst I was cheerful and bubbly. She has it after her mother, who is pretty much the same, only even worse. My poor mother tried hard to converse with her, and I could feel her agony when Mrs Hale just kept silent. How do they manage to be so uncivilized! I am quite appalled!

 

And the biscuits they offered us, diary, the biscuits. From far off they looked rather pleasant, and I was gingerly looking forward to a little afternoon treat. But, diary, as the plateau with the biscuits neared my poor nose, I could smell that they were badly cooked and smelled as if they were rather out of date! I refused as politely as I could, gesturing lady-likely with my hands. I do not mean to be impertinent, but the biscuits looked positively horrible from nearby. I was quite appalled!

 

But of course, I am determined to remain civil and treat the Hales like neighbours, just as a civilized lady such as myself should do.

 

Yours truly,

Fanny Thornton

 

 

Is their any particular Period Drama/Literature person you'd like me (Naomi, not Fanny:) to write a 'dear diary' entry from?

(#2) Dear Diary...

Dear Diary,

I am in the depth of despair.

I cannot acknowledge to you why, because the burden, the shame and the disaster lays too heavy on my bosom. If I would write down the reason for this, the shame would lie even heavier, and I feel, at the moment that that would probably make an end to my life, because I can’t imagine any shame heavier than the mortification and indignity I am trying hard to endure as bravely as possible now. I could not even tell Diana, who is my very dearest friend and consolation in trouble. Diana could not console me now, chocolate caramels could not console me either and even puffed sleeves could not console me.

Oh, Diary- dear, unashamed, sweet diary! I don’t want to tell you, because I don’t want to read what I will write, because I know I couldn’t bear to see, on paper, reaffirmed, the thing I have just done to myself. But, diary, I have to tell you, and read it all over, as a punishment for myself which I most heartily deserve.

Thus, I have decided I should tell you, as a punishment: I have dyed my hair, and the colour in which I have dyed it is green.

There. It wasn’t half as bad as I had imagined. It was a real mortification though, when I had to tell Marilla, because, you see, she could answer back, and you don’t do that. Oh diary! I’ve got green hair! It’s all bronzy, greeny- and I look like a perfect scarecrow, as Josie Pye will assuredly tell me next week- oh dear! How shall I find the gumption to go to school in this unpardonable, wretched state! I am in a state of unconquerable consolation and I feel as though I have been flung to the very end of the ocean, where it is dark and eerie and where no-one but the little, teasing bubbles wish to near me. Oh, Diary! I have never imagined anything could be worse than red hair, but this is! Green hair is far more unromantic and ugly and horrible than I had ever imagined possible.

How I hate that gentleman who sold me the hair-colourer! I wonder if he knew it was green, and not shimmering black, like he told me. I had so much looked forward to black hair – I was imagining how charming it would be to have me and Diana with the same hair-colour. I decided I would dye my hair and then run to Barry’s farm to call Diana, who’d then run to me, who was all pretty and changed, looking dazzlingly beautiful on the bridge of the Lake of Shining Waters, and she’d cry, ‘Oh Cordelia! How beautiful you are!’

Green in such a miserable, miserable degradation. I’m sure you understand why I spent the next hours scrunched up in bed, crying like a baby. I tell you, I was so unhappy I couldn’t even imagine things.

I cannot be consoled. This day had been the worst day in my entire life up till now, and I have had lot's of bad days so that says a lot. I wish there was a more poetic way to say this, but currently I have more important things to worry about than that. What shall I do? What does one do when one is amidst woe and tribulations?

Yours cordially,

Anne Shirley,

(Or Cordelia FitzGerald)

Dear diary...

 

I have always taken great delight in vexing people. In fact, together with reading the weekly news and finding calmness and solitude with a good book, it is one of my favourite pastimes in life.

 

Naturally some people are more pleasing and humorous to tease than others. I could not play my old pranks on my two eldest daughters, Jane and Lizzy. Jane is too dear and sweet to be seen upset and Lizzy is too clever to be tricked. She'll only make things worse and tease back, funny girl. I unashamedly and officially call Lizzy my favourite of the feminine Bennet bunch.

 

My dear wife and my three youngest daughters - the two youngest in particular - are indeed delightful to tease. They never realise that it is my sardonic humour and sarcastic wit playing up and take all I say for granted! All!

 

I have lately played a very witty joke on them. Aye, it was so good that even my little Lizzy got fooled this time.

 

I pretended to flatly refuse to visit the famous Mr Bingley (I do not know why the whole town is talking of him - what is there to say about the poor man, pray?) - while I, in real life, had long before sent him a letter with an invitation.

 

My wife - having both her nerve and smelling salts attacks - was pleading and begging, saying that our lives would be ruined if I didn't do it. I went on, not saying anything in particular, mumbling something which made poor Mrs Bennet even more hysteric than she had been, from behind my newspaper, which, of course, I wasn't really reading.

 

Lydia and Kitty, otherwise entitled as the two silliest girls of England, were doing the same as Mrs Bennet, only a little more cheerful, commenting coquettishly about the arrival of the officers now and then through their pleads.

 

Be it not as it may, Mrs Bennet suddenly cried out that she was sick of Mr Bingley. So was I, but I did not say so, and decided it would be the right time to put an end to my joke. I said I was sorry to hear that she was sick of Mr Bingley because I had written to him this morning. I said it was too late to escape the acquaintance now.

 

Mrs Bennet and the two silliest girls of England where hence even more astonished than I had delightfully anticipated when I had thought of the joke. My wife even kissed me - she was certainly overdoing it all. As I left the room to go to read in the library, I heard them hooting and howling in parlour.

 

Aye, aye, my joke has turned out my better than I had expected. What a triumph!

 

Yours truly,

Mr Bennet

 

(This was written by myself and can therefore not be copied without my permission.)