_. I moved back into my newly decorated bedroom. I must say the whole thing looks wonderful. Like bathing inside a chocolate Easter egg, with a sheen resembling the glow of Muhammad Ali's backside. Yes, a peculiar description but I can think of nothing better. Blimey, I'm no W.H. Auden, speaking of which, didn't he have a craggy face like Gordale Scar? Or was that E.M. Forster? I'm not too clever when it comes to poets. Rupert Brooke, I know a bit about him, but if you ask me poets are just novelists who decide to take the easy way out. This modern stuff is the biggest con inflicted on the literary world. The literature, art, architecture - you name it - of today is all diabolical. In one hundred years time what, other than this journal, will be looked upon as a worthwhile contribution to the artistic life of the late 20th century? What will the Japanese be flocking to our shores to photograph in say 2080? Obviously, the grandson of the current Prince of Wales will be drawing the crowds on Horse Guards Parade, in the way that Elizabeth II does today, but what else? I am not academic at the Henley Centre for Forecasting, but I'd say the prospects are gloomy. Am I going to end my life in a trench, like so many millions did in 1914-18?
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