A Tory in Winter

What Ho Proles!

I’ve wrestled greased pigs that have given me less fight than the latest two chapters of my memoirs, the first of which I have posted below. Don’t take much notice of them, my dear resilient friends. The spirit flags in these dark months and I find it hard to function when sunlight breaks miserably on the horizon and comes to me as insipid rays devoid of heat or luminance.

No alcohol has touched my system since the weekend and I swear I will remain sober until the work is complete. But still, a man can’t live by fragments of light alone and a little spirit would help warm the blood. I need healthier climes for my writing.

The Hall, surrounded acres of sparse woodland, has a miserable feel to it. I blame the rooks that caw through the day, emphasising how lonely it can be for a Tory in winter. The only thing to get the blood pumping is the sound of the shotguns as My Man sees off the local poachers who never cease attempting to steal meat from my land.

Nevertheless, while words continue to come, I shall continue to write; though it will all need infusing with a little zest once the warmer days return and I find myself in that sunny place where all rewrites reside.

Vade in pace.