The Diary of a Nobody

The Diary of a Nobody, by
George Grossmith

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Title: The Diary of a Nobody
Author: George Grossmith and Weedon Grossmith
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DIARY OF A NOBODY ***

Transcribed by David Price, email [email protected]

The Diary of a Nobody

INTRODUCTION BY MR. POOTER

Why should I not publish my diary? I have often seen reminiscences of
people I have never even heard of, and I fail to see--because I do not
happen to be a 'Somebody'--why my diary should not be interesting.
My only regret is that I did not commence it when I was a youth.
Charles Pooter The Laurels, Brickfield Terrace Holloway.
CHAPTER I

We settle down in our new home, and I resolve to keep a diary.
Tradesmen trouble us a bit, so does the scraper. The Curate calls and
pays me a great compliment.
My clear wife Carrie and I have just been a week in our new house,

"The Laurels," Brickfield Terrace, Holloway--a nice six-roomed
residence, not counting basement, with a front breakfast-parlour. We
have a little front garden; and there is a flight of ten steps up to the
front door, which, by-the-by, we keep locked with the chain up.
Cummings, Gowing, and our other intimate friends always come to the
little side entrance, which saves the servant the trouble of going up to
the front door, thereby taking her from her work. We have a nice little
back garden which runs down to the railway. We were rather afraid of
the noise of the trains at first, but the landlord said we should not notice
them after a bit, and took 2 pounds off the rent. He was certainly right;
and beyond the cracking of the garden wall at the bottom, we have
suffered no inconvenience.
After my work in the City, I like to be at home. What's the good of a
home, if you are never in it? "Home, Sweet Home," that's my motto. I
am always in of an evening. Our old friend Gowing may drop in
without ceremony; so may Cummings, who lives opposite. My dear
wife Caroline and I are pleased to see them, if they like to drop in on us.
But Carrie and I can manage to pass our evenings together without
friends. There is always something to be done: a tin-tack here, a
Venetian blind to put straight, a fan to nail up, or part of a carpet to nail
down--all of which I can do with my pipe in my mouth; while Carrie is
not above putting a button on a shirt, mending a pillow-case, or
practising the "Sylvia Gavotte" on our new cottage piano (on the three
years' system), manufactured by W. Bilkson (in small letters), from
Collard and Collard (in very large letters). It is also a great comfort to
us to know that our boy Willie is getting on so well in the Bank at
Oldham. We should like to see more of him. Now for my diary:-
April 3.--Tradesmen called for custom, and I promised Farmerson, the
ironmonger, to give him a turn if I wanted any nails or tools. By-the-by,
that reminds me there is no key to our bedroom door, and the bells
must be seen to. The parlour bell is broken, and the front door rings up
in the servant's bedroom, which is ridiculous. Dear friend Gowing
dropped in, but wouldn't stay, saying there was an infernal smell of
paint.

April 4. Tradesmen still calling; Carrie being out, I arranged to deal
with Horwin, who seemed a civil butcher with a nice clean shop.
Ordered a shoulder of mutton for to-morrow, to give him