It's been an eventul few days. I am now settling into a flat that Auntie arranged for me to rent. It's smaller ...very small actually...and less....poetic than I would have liked, but it will do for the moment.
I'm just glad to be out of that godforsaken boarding house. I swear I had not a minute to myself there...difficult when one is....creating...poems...to be constantly interrupted to come downstairs for meals or for tea...or to escort one's Aunt on her daily constitutional...or all sorts of dreary things.
Granted, it is not the plush setting that I imagined that Phineas Matova, man about town and poet at large, would be dwelling and entertaining in, but I have a table and chairs, a fireplace, and a goodly supply of *peers at a faded label on a large barrel in the corner* whiskey? Whiskey I believe it is. Bought it from a chap in an alley. And that is all I need.
Perhaps I shall take a stroll and make aquaintance of my new neighbors...or perhaps I shall stay in and write poems...Oh I believe I shall do that this evening, with no Aunt to ask me to rub her bunions or ask me to fetch her yarn from behind the sofa or bathe her ancient, dyspeptic cat.
Mr Boots apparently had some sort of ...skin condition.