January 1st 1666

The first chapter

The Anonymous Diary of Jonathon Peeps

　

　

January 1^st 1666

A fine morning with the sun shining through the window, though partly obscured by the gibbet that swings to a fro. Why hangings are performed outside MY house is of considerable annoyance. Turned to slap my wife on the buttocks, out of humour you understand, but she was not in bed. She must have gone to the market again! She was spending a lot of time at that market lately. As soon as the 6am market bells rang she was away.

As I stood out of bed I caught my foot with a howl on a sharp object. The lute that was a present from my wife for Christmas. She said I needed a hobby and it would be something to practise. Presumably when she was at the market. The funny thing is that she could only afford the lute without strings and I have to buy them one at a time as they are expensive. Perhaps a good idea, as it will be some time before I can play anything complex, and knowing me, if at all. So for an hour I practised practising, imagining the sound of the lute. To be honest I

’ve never heard one played, but it looks nice.

10am bell and no sign of wife.

I dressed and went to the Tower Hill Coffee House to chat and take my morning draught. As usual the house was full of foppish French fancies, men who don themselves in powder puff and scent and frown on the smoking of tobacco. What sort of men are these? They stand around adoring themselves in tiny mirrors, tossing their wigs and pouting like carp. But they are harmless creatures. I was invited back to a sodimnity party (I think) by one before Christmas but declined. What sort of party has no women? Thank god that we are separated from most of these idiots by a goodly stretch of sea. I once had a nightmare that a tunnel had been created allowing the French into Britain, but no one came!

Mr Monk said that he bought a lute for his wife for Christmas as well, but it was stolen. It had very fine silver strings worth 8 Shillings.

To bed at 11pm bell after a late supper of cheese and the wife still out!

　

Jan 2^nd

Last night I had a very strange dream that the wife had run off with a fishmonger, which I put down to the cheese, but I haven’t seen her for 24 hours.

No news from the bookstores about a new position. I have applied to six. It has now been a full month since Hartley’s Book Emporium closed, everyone selfishly pegging it from the plague except your good self. It was a good job that over the years I pilfered enough books to use as a redundancy. If I had not sold a rare copy of The Use of Moles in Medicinal Laxative Restoration we’d have been skint at Christmas.

Invited to Henry Peacock’s to watch his wife have their fifth child. Great clammerings of people family and friends jostling about in a tiny bedroom. Resulting in what appears to be in vogue, to eat an enormous amount of pie and get pissed watching a tired old Fanny. Fanny Peacock is 63!

　

Jan 3^rd

I don’t believe it? The wife HAS run off with a fishmonger! His name is Ewart Spurgen and damn his blood it serves him right. It turns out the old bat (from hence I shall refer to the missus) had fallen for him after he delivered a barrel of mussels some weeks ago. I should have been suspicious for they gave me the s***s for three nights. He must have won her heart with his reeking armpits and capacious toothless grin. Mrs fulsham my neighbour, an even bigger old bat and long friend of the missus has been in contact with her, saying that she wants to live with him and his dead fish.

I was so happy that I made my way immediately to the coffee house and punched a Frenchman square in the chops! I didn’t really. I was quite upset, this sort of thing has never happened to me before.

Henry Peacock later called to give me his condolences - a flagon of brandy which we toasted.

　

Jan 5^th

Drank too much night before last and so lay in all day yesterday.

As I have today.

　

Jan 6^th

Have had plenty of time to think about the old bat and the interruption of our 10 years of marriage. Thank god we didn’t have any children, not to each other anyway. I will of course miss her warmth in bed, and her meals, but not her nagging, criticism, farting, harassment, shrieking etc etc. They say that time heals, but all it does is rearrange the memory, and this is happening so very soon.

My father would have probably approved of Ewart Spurgen, because like him he was a lying nobody! He prided himself on being familiar with the sea and aspirations of a sailors life, but in truth the nearest he got to that was sailing upon one of his majesties prison ships to Bananosland for stealing 2Ib of herring. And if that isn’t ironic enough then cast me down if the herring wasn’t from Spurgen’s own market stall itself! A few years ago you understand, but although Spurgen’s father, a good gentleman by nature did own the fish stall then, it was the upstart Ewart that did identify my father as the culprit to the law. If I did not hate my father and think nothing of the old bat I’d kill that Ewart Spurgen!

　

Jan 7^th

Last night, as I lay contemplating my new life without the old bat, I was pestered by Mrs Fulsham’s moggy that screeched and howled the night away as it has done for the past 5 years. This I know to be exact because it was I that came across the half-drowned moggy that I saved from the weather (another drunken evening) and gave it to her as a pet. The double old bat.

So fed up with losing shoes I lobbed the first thing that came to hand. An unstringed lute as it happens, which was not a light instrument being made of some imported hardwood. There was a thud and the caterwauling stopped. Peace thought I…. but as the night lingered I began to think of the moggy laying there, was it dead or suffering? It is now 4 in the morning and the silence is worrying.

5pm bell. Stole into Mrs Fulsham’s back garden to look for moggy which was found dead and I the murderer. I felt terribly sad until I discovered a scattering of nine lost shoes in various decay, all left footed for some reason. One for each moggy life, and the lute for moggy bad luck.

A breakfast in the Tower Hill Coffee House of pickled beetroot and lamb chops, it has a ridiculous menu. A half groat, scandalous. Made a note to actually buy food for the house.

Popped into St Paul

’s on the way back for two reasons really, to thank the good lord for assisting me in getting rid of the old bat, and to say a little prayer for Mrs Fulsham’s moggy who shall be sorely missed. The street can be deathly silent at night, except for the squeaking of the gibbet when the wind picks up, and if it’s noise I must have, although I prefer none, surely it must be the noise of life as opposed to the noise of death. Will write a letter to the Lord Chief Justice to ask if the gibbet can be moved. Will recommend Ewart Spurgen’s fish stall, as that all ready stinks to high heaven!

　

Jan 8^th

A late breakfast in the Tower Hill Coffee House of sprats in cheese sauce, it gets worse! There is a rough hand painted sign that hangs outside saying The King’s Arse. Mr Plucker, the landlord, has decided to liven the spirits of it’s patrons and insult the Frenchies, for the king in the name is not Charles’ arse, but Louis XIII‘s arse! Although, the portrait that hangs as the sign outside seems to resemble Charles. Or to be more precise resembles what I think Charles looks like from a coin or other portrait as I’ve never seen him. What does Louis XIII look like? Nobody seems to care, but I find it most annoying to not know what people look like.

As I am still without employment I have plenty of time to myself, so wrote a letter to lord chief justice..

Dear Sir

I hope this letter finds you in good health and good mood for I wish I could say the same. I have not failed to notice, that since the gibbet that hangs outside my window on Tower Street was erected almost two years ago, it has been in constant use. Fresh corpses arriving on a monthly basis to rot and stink not six feet from my bed. Which I see through my nailed shut window. Whilst I walk about this city and notice the odd empty gibbet, for I cannot help but notice one that is empty for it is a rare sight. I find it hard to believe how regularly mine (I should say yours) is inhabited! Not only is this a stinking health hazard but it attracts vast flocks of birds and rattles noisily in the wind. At the very least it should be oiled and at the very most removed. This is a neighbourhood watch area!

　

Jan 10^th

No news is good news from the bat. Miss her a bit though (the cooking). I did mention this to Mrs Fulsham as a sort of joke but she remained stony faced. She has got some posters of her missing Fairfax printed and distributed them over half of London. It’s only a cat for Christ’s sake, am I to be tortured over this as well? I pointed out that he’s only been missing for 3 days, (the words came out before thinking) but she said he never went further than my back garden. True. In fact poor old Fairfax will NEVER venture further than my back garden ever again.

Mr monk came round with Mr Peacock for cards, a new game called Swindle. I lost 8 Shillings.

　

Jan 11^th

Where I live on the corner of Tower Street l have a good view of The Tower itself and an even better whiff of The Thames which, thank god, is still frozen over so doesn’t quit stink in the usual manner, only of the occasional dog s**t, offal, fish guts and rotten vegetables that lead the path to the frost fair. If you’ve ever slipped on ice, then I recommend slipping on dog s**t that is on ice for a superior slipping experience. To be honest the fair is most welcome in these harsh, cold conditions, providing a goodly meeting of traders and loose women, whom, I am afraid to say, it has always been my utmost pleasure to meet. So feeling a little down in the spirits I walked a while on the Thames with Mr Peacock looking for a tart.

Mr Peacock is in some displeasure with his wife who has just had a son, because he has not had sex with her for 5 years!

Found no tarts.

　

Jan 12^th

Massive fighting outside The King’s Arse/ Tower Hill Coffee House between the French and everybody else! Word has got around that the name refers to Louis XIII. Some Soldiers were called and 26 people were arrested, including Mr Plucker who has been charged with incitement to riot and selling cheese without a licence (?). There are a lot of French people in London, where will it end? Seeing as the King’s Arse will be shut until the windows and doors and part of the roof is replaced, I went to the Macduffs Inn for a change. I had coffee, a Macduffs’ double kipper on toast and a Macduffs’ quarter pounder venison and cheese pastry. Scottish food is very filling.

　

Jan 13th

Eating out is getting to be expensive. So today I made for the butchers, with the idea of a supper tonight with guests to quell the loneliness, darkness and cold. I bought veal, beef, two pigeons and some fruit. However, upon entering my sad hollow kitchen with its vacant pans and stove, I was struck with the notion that I had not the faintest idea how to cook, so I bribed Mrs Fulsham with 2 Shillings to conjure us a feast.

At a half past the 7pm bell Mr monk, Mr Peacock, Edward the local barber surgeon, whom I did not invite, and a trio of giggling girls from Mrs Fulsham’s workplace all turned up. I told her to bring some of her friends from the amalgamated horse dripping and glue factory, and apart from the smell they were all pretty girls. I myself decorated the table with a plate of oranges and lemons and brandy and ale which we all had a good drink. Mr Monk gave us a few songs with Mrs Fulsham joining in falsetto not unlike her late Fairfax. Edward told unspeakably disgusting jokes, and a song about his earlier seafaring days, with the girls laughing as Mr Peacock showed them his smallpox scars. If indeed they were smallpox scars.

Mrs Fulham’s ‘Feast’ consisted of the cooked meats I had bought and a ‘Special’ pie decorated with the name ‘Special Pie’ in the pastry. When pressed as to the contents, Mrs Fulsham said it was an old country recipe and smiled a toothless grin. Edward cut the meats with one of his own knives and placed each juicy slice on the plate with a firm grip between his permanently bandaged fingers.

There was plenty of grub and more ale and wine, the evening ending with dancing and singing and groping. Mrs Fulsham had left by this time!

　

Jan 14th

We’ve all got the s***s! Blast that Fulsham bat and her pie for everyone has the running clap! Mr Monk came round to retrieve his hat and told me that he and Mr peacock were ill. I see no reason why I should pay 2 Shillings for a scabby pie that sends you off to the bucket, and apart from which, was nothing special at all, containing some manky meat and veg. I shall be asking for the money back! I’m no quack or physician, but I often ponder over the connection with the bad air and general filth that we live in and consume, and the illness that chokes our very existence. Why is every illness to do with the blood? I keep thinking of Edward’s fingers poking the meat. It can’t be good for you?

A small note on the doormat this morning all smudged and quite unreadable. It does however smell of fish.

Later this afternoon there was a knock at the door. A visit from one of the girls who attended last night’s sickness supper. I’m not sure how far the groping went but I must have made an impression, for she was very chatty, and I’m afraid I allowed her to understand that I was a single fellow, with his own house and a fortune to spend on oranges and lemons. Although the conversation was disrupted with frequent (alternate) visits to the bucket we agreed to meet tomorrow. I must be mad. And forgot to ask her name…

　

Jan 15th

Tonight I took the tart out for the evening. Her name is Agnes Moose (Scottish perhaps?) a nice enough wench, dare I say pretty underneath the powdered pimples, and cheap costing only 1 Shilling a shag and a plate of sausage after in the Lamb Scrag Inn. A den of vice, but I feel comfortable there in the knowledge that I will not be seen, for private comfortable rooms are rented cheap upstairs. Hells bells, I

’ve thought of moving there.

Agnes and I nearly charged over by a carriage on our return from Crunt Lane. If only there was a system where we could identify these rogues, perhaps a colouring or numbering system of carriages to identify these idiots, then they could pay some form of tax to be on the damn cobbles in the first place!

I can’t be exactly sure, but as we parted company aside a darkened alley I saw two sailors grappling with each other, then I noticed exactly what they were doing and seeing us they took further to the smoggy shadows. It was probably my mind playing tricks, but I swear one of them looked like the Ewart Spurgen. He festers my mind.

Weather very bad with a tremendous gusty wind, the gibbet shaking at right angles spraying the public with bits of dried felon!

　

Jan 16th

No correspondence about employment, (and not surprisingly as I’ve not applied myself to it in any way) but what’s this? A reply from The Lord Chief Justice..

Dear Sir, Regarding your letter concerning the location of gallows and gibbets within the city of London, The Honourable Lord Chief Justice would like to inform you that as from the 1st February gibbet locations are being revised for the whole of the City, and as a result the Tower Hill gibbet moved to Crunt Street, regards etc etc..

Hurrah! Me, Monk and Peacock out to celebrate, not coming home till late and very drunk!

　

Jan 17th

Agnes turned up at the door this morning in a terrible state of tears, saying that her landlord had turned her out, I said I’d help her out financially. I can’t help myself out financially, but I comforted her with a little warm wine, 2 Shillings, and a fair amount of verbal bullshit. Explaining my own predicament, I think she understood. But she had a worrying glazed expression as I shut the door on her face.

Although not particularly upset about it, Mr Peacock has tackled his wife’s immaculate conception, and the only thing he can think of is the delivery of mussels that coincided with it! It cannot be surely?? I told him you can’t get pregnant from eating mussels, it’s oysters you have to watch out for.

　

Jan 18th

HELLO! I don’t believe it, a visit from the bat. Firstly she asked if I had got her note asking if it was possible to come around, but as she was before me I said it was not a problem and she was fine enough about it. I said I had no grudge against her (the truth), or the Spurgen (a lie), and she was happy to go her own way and live the life of a wanton w***e if she wished. In truth we talked about a great many things, the more we talked the more liberated I felt, and we did not feel sad for each other or our going separate ways. In fact she suggested that the Spurgen was probably an excuse and that she hardly saw him. She worked at his market stall and come the evening he often vanished not coming home till late. Perhaps she isn’t a bat after all?

As she left, she asked me if I was seeing anyone else, to which I replied ‘Don’t be ridiculous woman!’

　

Jan 19th

Agnes turned up again this morning with dishevelled hair and smudged lipstick, saying she had now nowhere to live. So I took her to another Macduffs Inn which are springing up all over and fed her with two fashionable strawberry flavoured milks at 2 Pennies each. Apparently she has been sleeping at the factory where she worked. I thought this to be very bad for a young girl like her, so I did the only gentlemanly thing and booked her into The Lamb Scrag for a week.

　

Jan 21st

Yesterday Louis XIII

’s missus died, I forget her name, I dare say he has too. Vigil outside the empty King’s Arse which is undergoing renovation. Went to see Agnes, but told her to lay low for a day or two. I simply can’t afford her or the sausage!

　

Jan 22nd

The plague is said to becoming under control, but I think it is becoming increasingly worse. As well as the normal destitute corpses littering the streets, we now have quite wealthy corpses littering the streets. Today I’m quite sure I saw a man going through the clothing of a corpse with fine clothes and it is a pitying thing to see.

I hear that even physicians are succumbing to the disease, you now can’t get to see your local quack not because of the huge waiting list, but because he’s dead! My physician Theopold Spartacus (Jewish if I’m not wrong), has found a way around the problem of not dying by moving into a hospital. The one place that plague victims are most unwelcome.

　

Jan 23rd

Because nobody knows what the hell’s going on with the plague. What it is, or how to contain it, there is a dog and cat cull, as they are thought to carry the disease. 51,765 knobbled so far with bonfires of their scabby remains on The Heath, as reported in The Tower Hill Times. A desperate reaction I think, along with the idea of rounding up all the flies in London. I showed Mrs Fulsham the article and told to forget about Fairfax, but she said his memory would live on for ever. My guilt for Fairfax has gone, after all I did him a favour saving him from The Heath and giving him a decent Christian burial in the back garden.

There must be a newspaper for every street in London, as you can only buy The Tower Hill Times in Tower Hill. Most people round here either can’t read, won’t read, or simply can’t afford to read. The readership of The Tower Hill Times must be 46!

Was seen in the Lamb Scrag by the Dean of St Michaels! At mass today he told me to be very careful of my travels in light of my recent acquaintance (obviously Agnes), what I fail to understand is why HE was at the Lamb Scrag?

　

Jan 24th

This morning on my way to Macduffs accompanied by Mr Monk, I bumped into Mr Swan the local constable who talked about a very nasty robbery which happened in Quill Street two days ago. A Dutch merchant was knocked to the ground and robbed in broad daylight, the thief having the audacity to go through his fine clothes whilst folk were walking past and nobody to his assistance! I said I didn’t see anything.

　

Jan 25th

A note from the missus by way of Mrs Fulsham, and this time not covered in fish s**t. The missus has left the Spurgen and gone to live with her sister in Blackfriars. She says she caught him coming home in the early hours dressed in a sailor’s uniform and he had no other reason than that he was a part-time seaman on night shift. I don’t think so Spurgen! There’s no way out for you now. Although the missus wants nothing more to do with him (or me), she says that she will not want a divorce unless I live with another woman. Which is fair enough, as I have absolutely no intention of doing so!

　

Jan 26th

Agnes comes this morning, I notice strawberry milk on her face, and says she saw the Dean of St Michaels in the Lamb Scrag last night with a sailor. I asked if the sailor had no teeth and smelled of fish and she said yes, they all do. Well they do, but one is THE sailor with no teeth and stinks of fish. What is my life coming to? In a few short weeks it has been turned upside down, but where there is woe there appears to be an antidote, so I hastily wrote a letter to the Dean of St Michaels asking him if he would care to explain the situation, before I informed the Tower Hill Times of his conduct. Agnus delivered the letter this afternoon. I let her stay the night at my house. She ate pickled onions throughout our passion. To live with another woman would be an impossibility!

　

Jan 27th

Woke this morning to see Agnes up cleaning the house and then making me a breakfast, which was both welcome and unwelcome. She spoke of ‘paying her way’ and then went to work.

Went to Edwards for a haircut. He must be the coarsest human alive, for a full 20 minutes I had to endure his unholy language, disgusting unfunny jokes and filthy bandaged fingers poking and prodding my head. It is completely unnecessary to put up a sign saying he ‘shaves scrotums for 1 Penny’.

On the way back passed The King’s Arse. Although the sign has now gone pending a new name, it looks a new building and very nice. Set to reopen under new management soon. Mr Plucker tells me he has paid his fine and is going to Huntingdon with his missus and son, where he is to start up a pheasant farm. I have an aunt who lives in the same town, so I gave him a letter to give her. Perhaps she’s escaped the plague? You’d think in this day and age someone would start up a regular business delivering letters for a small fee. All this not hearing from relations for years on end is ridiculous.

Jan 28th

A note received from the Dean of St Michaels saying that the whole affair with Spurgen was a sorry mistake and in the interests of all concerned should be forgotten. From this he means his interests. I don’t know why he’s so agitated I’m only going to blackmail him.

　

Jan 29th

Agnes has moved in! I’m not quite sure how it happened, it was all a blur. I came home last evening after cards with Peacock and fell over piles of clothing that stretched to the kitchen where she was cooking dressed only in stockings and a shawl!! The strawberry milk lip sticked lips, the melting cow eyed cow! I grabbed her, she grabbed the pickled onions and that was that.

　

Author's Note

comments welcome