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1
349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
222
May
30.
A
brilliantly
sunny
day.
This
funny
old
farm-house
where
we
are
staying
quite
delights
me.
It
is
pleasant,
too,
to
dawdle
over
dressing,
to
put
away
shaving
tackle
for
a
day
or
so,
to
jump
out
of
bed
in
the
morning
and
thrust
my
head
out
of
the
window
into
the
fresh
and
stock-scented
air
of
the
garden,
listen
to
the
bird
chorus
or
watch
a
"scrap"
in
the
poultry-run.
Then
all
unashamed,
I
dress
myself
before
a
dear
old
lady
in
a
flowery
print
gown
concealing
4
thin
legs
and
over
the
top
of
the
mirror
a
piece
of
lace
just
like
a
bonnet,
caught
up
in
front
by
a
piece
of
pink
ribbon.
On
the
walls
Pear's
Soap
Annuals,
on
a
side
table
Swiss
Family
Robinson
and
Children
of
the
New
Forest.
Then
there
are
rats
under
the
floors,
two
wooden
staircases
which
wind
up
out
of
sight,
two
white
dairies,
iron
hapses
on
all
the
doors
and
a
privy
at
the
top
of
the
orchard.
(Tell
me--how
do
you
explain
the
psychosis
of
a
being
who
on
a
day
must
have
seized
hammer
and
nail
and
an
almanac
picture
of
a
woman
in
the
snow
with
a
basket
of
goodies--"An
Errand
of
Mercy"--carried
all
three
to
the
top
of
the
orchard
and
nailed
the
picture
up
on
the
dirty
wall
in
the
semi-darkness
of
an
earth-closet?)
Got
up
quite
early
before
breakfast
and
went
birds'-nesting....
It
would
take
too
long
and
be
too
sentimental
for
me
to
record
my
feelings
on
looking
into
the
first
nest
I
found--a
Chaffinch's,
the
first
wild
bird's
eggs
I
have
seen
for
many
years.
As
I
stood
with
an
egg
between
thumb
and
forefinger,
my
memories
flocked
down
like
white
birds
and
surrounded
me.
I
remained
still,
fed
them
with
my
thoughts
and
let
them
perch
upon
my
person--a
second
St.
Francis
of
Assisi.
Then
I
shoo'ed
them
all
away
and
prepared
for
the
more
palpitating
enjoyment
of
to-day.
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