A Week Torn From My Diary

It has been drawn to my attention that I could actually “do something useful” rather than accumulate arcane jottings on the life and times of Professor Peregrine. In my defence, I offer a small indication of the onerous nature of this honourable task in the shape of a week's entries from my diary. 

Monday

The Professor showed me a draft of his long-awaited article on string theory. Disappointingly, it seemed to dwell overmuch on the (theoretically) best containers in which to save string. 

Tuesday

The Professor was jubilant as he announced that he has added the 12-inch record of "The Umpire's Lament" to his collection of rare vinyl from the 1980s. The use of analogue synthesisers is, he claims, unparalleled in the field of leg-spin bowling. 

Wednesday

Nothing much happened that I can recall, although I did take the cat for a walk.

I do not have a cat. The Professor is not answering his phone.

Thursday

The Professor left a postcard in my letterbox under the cover of darkness. It read:

"Every Thursday she welcomed the opportunity to buy ghost flowers in a nearby street. In all the years since then, I have been unable to find that street."

Friday

I attended The Annual Uphill Bicycle Race for trainee cordwainers and retired Dundee cake makers. Nobody won, as usual: a fine afternoon's entertainment. The weather remained, as tradition demands, absolutely terrible. 

I must remember to buy more rollmop herrings.

The Professor is still not answering his phone.

Saturday

The seminar on vexillology was cancelled due to the lack of a prevailing wind. 

Yet again, the Professor has failed to responded  to my calls and messages. 

Sunday

The Professor called me at dawn to tell me that he does not currently possess a phone and so would prefer me to stop attempting to call it. Coincidentally, he tells me that he has recently been in correspondence with Professor Hetherson Green concerning her theory of attaccabottoni in East Anglia during the 15th century. He described the theory as “fugacious, but puzzomous”. It’s difficult to disagree with that conclusion. 

Bubble and squeak for lunch before attending an enigmatic recital of mediaeval motets performed on the flageolet.