Dearest Diary,
As the excitement of last evening's events incrementally subsides, I am obliged to return to you this evening with far fewer anecdotes to which you shall be privy. I am troubled by the admiration of a certain gentleman who seems to become increasingly present among my social circles. It is not that I do not admire his countenance or handsome figure, but I am certain that he is not a man of the church. He does not stand on the same principles that I do. And therefore, I cannot entertain thoughts of him as I further my search for such a match.
Monsieur Buble, I'm afraid, has journeyed on to another county and as the eldest Miss Lindsay has established a rapport with him, I am certain I shall no longer carry such a torch.
And unfortunately, I have developed a rather unsavoury tickle in the back of my throat and am experiencing quite the discomfort in employing my voice. This poses a most disquieting hindrance to my scheduled activities for the weekend. I shall hope that such a nuissance grows no larger.
Would that I could present to you some form of positive information. Yes. I am decided I most certainly shall. For in just 10 short days, I shall be celebrating a most special birthday. On such holidays, I am apt to eat the foods I have recently sought to avoid. I assure you, however that, in a little over a week's time, potatoes cooked in oils and cakes frosted to twice their usual size will not be missing from the evenings courses. I intend to partake quite heavily. And by extension I shall be quite miserable when it is all said and done. But that is merely the business of birthdays. Would you like to join me?
But that is not for 10 more days. What about tomorrow?...
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