Tuesday 27th December

Mrs Protherbus, our cook – whom Papa has taken to calling The Dreadful Skillet on account of her sour temper – came back last night from visiting her family. I wish she had stayed in Greenwich! She gave us an awful breakfast of mealy porridge (and no sugar); burnt eggs and no bacon. I told her that we would get better food if we were in the workhouse. She said that was all to the good, and let us all go in together, because then she would have better company. This is what comes of over-familiarity with servants.

Went to see Will Sykes after lunch, lost two games at tip-cat, wandered about a bit, then walked back home along the canal. Just below Camden lock, I came across a rough young fellow blocking the tow-path with his lumpen brute of a horse. He stared at me in a most insolent fashion – the youth, not the horse – and did not budge an inch. So, I said, very firmly, that if he did not step aside, then I would have to barge past (ha!). The hulking oaf came up and, without a word of warning, pushed me into the water! Trudged my way home all frozen, sodden, and smelling of trousers.

Mama said it served me right for trying – trying! – to be clever. Papa remarked that a gentleman must occasionally accept setbacks in life.

‘Or even daily,’ said Mama, looking up at Papa and sighing.

Papa was very subdued all evening. I expect he was thinking long and hard about how SOMEONE MIGHT HAVE DROWNED.

Fanny came back very late from her piano recital and made some dull remark about bargees not appreciating my dry wit. Girls should not attempt humour.