1st January 1826

The whole family went to church at Mama’s insistence, apart from The Dreadful Skillet, who went to the Adam and Eve, a gin-shop on the Tottenham Court Road, which she said was ‘good as any chapel and far more cheering’ (!).

The church was very full – and we could not afford to give the pew-opener their due – so we were packed tight as a parcel. Mama, I could tell, was pleased with Fanny, who wore her best dress and lace bonnet; and I am sure that I looked presentable enough for the assembled inhabitants of Marylebone. Letty, on the other hand, insisted on chewing her hair (which I cannot entirely fault, because none of us are fed properly); Harriet would sniff at every opportunity; and Alf and Fred kept calling attention to themselves with their raucous singing, such that the organist gave the boys very stern glances after every hymn. Mama will have to teach them to just mouth the words, like proper Christians. The actual sermon was ‘Heaven or Hell? A Fool’s Wager’, during which Mama turned towards Pa and nodded towards the pulpit – as if to say, ‘and you – yes, you, sir – John Dickens, Esquire – take heed and repent!’

We loitered in the churchyard after the service. Papa took Alfred to look at a grave and tested him on his letters. Mama, on the other hand, took to gossiping with Mrs Fitzharris about our new neighbour. She is called Mrs Hathersage, an elderly widow who keeps her great-niece as a companion, along with an ancient manservant. Mrs Fitzharris said that the niece was ‘very pretty’ and she was sure that ‘all the young men of the district would want to make her acquaintance.’ Then she looked at me, raised her eyebrows, and poked me in the ribs with her umbrella (which hurt!). Then she, Mama and Fanny laughed like drains. I pretended that I had not heard, and joined Alf and Papa looking at a tombstone. I rather wished it had Mrs Fitzharris’s name on it.

(It actually said ‘Here lies Bartholomew Ezekiel Tinkerburn, widower of this Parish, Died of Shortness of Breath’, which I should imagine is how most people die and hardly wants remarking upon.)

Back home, the Dreadful S. returned from the Adam and Eve very late, very tipsy, and tried to get up an Irish jig with Papa! She was not to be trusted with the range and so Mama made our dinner: boiled potatoes, grilled chops – three in total – and little heaps of singed cabbage. Pa looked rather dismayed but said that we should be grateful for what was before us – which I expect he was, because he got a whole chop.