8th January 1826

Pa was still lying on the stairs when we awoke – Mama positively refused to look and daintily stepped over him on the way to breakfast – and so myself and The Skillet had to carry him up to bed. Skillet is strong as a navvy whereas I could not help dropping him on at least three separate occasions; and then somehow got his boots stuck between the banisters. Papa remained quite dead to the world throughout the entirety of this hauling and mauling. The boys kept on poking him with a ruler but he only let out low moans, like an ageing bullock being dragged to market. Skillet declared that she had never seen the like – I do not believe that – and should, by rights, hand in her notice. Mama persuaded her to stay by making breakfast herself. Could our domestic circumstances slump any lower?

After breakfast, we went to church – except for Papa, whom Mama said was ‘at home with a rheumatic fever.’ The sermon was ‘How Many Steps to Heaven?’ but the preacher refused to tell us the answer.

(There are twenty-seven steps from our hall to Ma and Pa’s bedroom, as I know to my cost. I am aching all over).

On returning home, we found that Papa, much like Our Lord – i.e. contrary to all popular expectation – had risen. I told him all about carrying him up the stairs but he did not remember. He gave me sixpence by way of apology, but then recalled that I owned him ninepence and took it back.