One of the brightest of bright ideas in Interwebshire was the recognition that a blog was the perfect medium for the (re)publication of journals and diaries from the past. I think the first of these was The Diary Of Samuel Pepys, where “a new entry written by Pepys [is] published each day over the course of several years; 1 January 1660 was published on 1 January 2003”. It was followed by, among others, the journals of Gilbert White (now complete) and George Orwell.
Orwell Diaries 1938-1942 is particularly rewarding for the insight it gives us into a great writer. Readers are promised “George Orwell’s domestic and political diary entries, posted 70 years to the day after they were written”, and that is exactly what we get. I have gained an entirely new perspective on the man after reading these complete and unabridged diary entries:
16.11.38 One egg.
17.11.38 One egg.
19.11.38 Two eggs.
21.11.38 Two eggs.
22.11.38 Two eggs.
25.11.38 Two eggs.
27.11.38 One egg.
28.11.38 Two eggs.
29.11.38 One egg.
30.11.38 Two eggs.
4.12.38 Two eggs.
6.12.38 Two eggs. Nights now are distinctly chilly.
10.12.38 One egg.
11.12.38 Two eggs.
13.12.38 Two eggs.
18.12.38 Two eggs.
21.12.38 Two eggs. Finer, cool, a few spots of rain. One of the pigeons is dead – cause unknown.
26-28.12.38 Have been ill. Not certain about number of eggs, but about 9.
I think the medicinal role of eggs is unduly disregarded. One suspects Orwell was taking or even applying them rather than merely eating them. Intriguingly, eggs happen to have played an important role in Pepys surgery to have a gall stone removed. Approximately two dozen were employed in a variety of uses.
someone should set this to music and release it as an albumen
What a hilarious yolk! A cracker.
Worthy of a standing ova-tion
You’re egging us on now.
Ghaeuic shjcofu jkshgx vfi99 nj8fbnb ajnjk bhjb … oh dear, it looks as if my witty reply was scrambled.
As a man, what was George doing writing a diary, wimmen’s work are diaries, “Dear diary…..”. Very un-alphaish. It could of course be argued that eggs are, after all, a diary product.
Eggs have far more importance than people give them credit for, Hendersons eggs are famous throughout the islands indeed the Gob-S-Hites would not exist without them, size fives of course.
It was argued that this made the Gob-S-Hites eggistence eggistential but this of course may or may not be reality and in any case the comment may attract subjective criticism.
Wonderful link Malty! I’d never heard of Avery, but apparently he was brought up on Mull, as dreich and unsonsy a place as I have ever had the misfortune to gang. Which might explain a great deal.
(Avery? Should I make that Ovary?)
He is indeed interesting jonathan, came across him at his porridge scoffers gallery of modern art exhibition, weird but fascinating, mind like Spike Milligan I suspect. There is a book, ‘The Islanders’, still available at the gallery and strangely, in Germany.
The Guardian sort of clung on to him for a bit, not that much of a bit, we will however not hold that against him.
You may wish to add to your review of Mull the fact that it contains some of Scotland’s most rabid racists or the core support of the Scots Nats as they like to be called.
George had taken up keeping hens and this was his record of their laying achievements. (You probably all knew this anyway)
Thanks Carol – another demonstration of what a wonderful man he was.
I think this sort of highbrow wordplay is just the sort of thing that scares folk away from this site, and it should be discouraged; at the least, the casual visitor will ovoid making a comment. I think we should encourage lowbrowism whenever possible.
True. I think hard-boiled Dabbler readers will cope just fine, but others may well want to whisk themselves away.
Casual visitors can cluck off.
The Dabbler without highbrow wordplay would be Omlet without the Prince of Henmark.
“Shell shock widespread among Dabblers” said the Egham Courier in it’s late night eggstra edition.
I’m a shell of my former self after reading this.
‘Gallinaceous’ apparently means chicken-like. Anyone care to work that into a pun? It would certainly require more than my poultry talent.
Did you hear about the girl scout who made a tidy profit flogging ‘free range’ battery eggs at a quid each to gullible townies at the farmer’s market?
Not bad going for a gal on a shoe-string budget.
(Ok so you have to stretch the pronunciation a bit.)
I’m sure I’ve heard that before somewhere, Brit – where did you poach it from?
Sort of henny on a penny.
One assumes that the subject is now laid to rest.
I think it’s time, Malty: as the great chicken breeder once said: “Don’t pullet, it’ll send you blind!”
[...] swooping in the sky nor the ingredients of my breakfast. I did not even make note of the number of eggs counted by George Orwell on that day seventy years before. One thing I did do, however, was to read [...]