Here is something I did not expect to be doing with my newsletter, which is recommending a competing newsletter. But I am doing it, because the writer is Daniel Piper, and Daniel Piper is the best thing on Substack. (I have done extensive research on this, by which I mean I read a great many Substacks and then formed an opinion.)
Daniel writes dry British humor that is, and he would want me to emphasize this, NOT INTENDED TO BE FUNNY. He is a Serious Literary Author. He is not a jackanapes comĂ©dien. (I used the French word for comedian there to appear sophisticated. Turns out it means âactor,â which proves I know âjackanapes shitâ about French.)
Recently Daniel messaged to thank me for sharing his work, an honor I have filed alongside the day Fight Club author Chuck Palahniuk sent me a package containing a signed copy of his latest book, a jackalope mount (a rabbit, plus antlers, assembled by human hands against the clear wishes of God), and one bottle of elk urine. (Seriously.)
Five years ago, the suggestion that my âworkâ would be seen by people who write billion-dollar Hollywood films, or by an actual contributor to The New Yorker, would have struck me as unlikely and possibly a symptom of something.
The darkness of my research sometimes leaves me feeling like screaming at a wall (the wall has stopped taking it personally), and on those days I read Daniel until the feeling passes, a process that takes approximately one article and zero bottles of elk urine.
So if you like humor that is clever, faintly pedantic, and delivered in a crisp British register, I am running a piece Daniel sent me for this very occasion, along with a link to his Substack, so you can join me in Serious Literary Fandom.
And with that, I leave you with: âThe Best of Daniel Piperâ.
Dear littérateurs,
This week my Serious Literary Diary turned two years old. To celebrate, I have carefully handpicked a selection of my âGreatest Hitsâ â my most serious and literary diary entries from the last two years.
30 July 2024:
Today somebody asked me what I do. I told her I am a writer. She then immediately asked if I have âhad anything publishedâ. I find this question deeply distasteful. As a Serious Literary Author, I am unconcerned with such trifling concepts as âpublicationâ, or âreadersâ. Some of my best work exists only in my notebook, never to be read by anybody. This is writing at its most pure. Private and honest, unspoiled by outside eyes. However, seeing as she asked, I told her yes, my writing has in fact been published on several websites including Amazon, eBay and Tripadvisor.
3 August 2024:
Today I was asked why I write. I realised I did not have an answer prepared for this question. Writing is just what I do. It is all I know. But since so many authors have written powerful quotes explaining why they write, I decided the time had come for me to write my own. A short literary manifesto. My writerly raison dâĂȘtre. So I sat down at my desk, picked up my pen and wrote:
Why do I write? The answer is simple. If you cut me, I bleed ink. My skin is parchment. My eyes are full stops. My ears are parentheses. My hairs are hyphens. My toes are en-dashes. My fingers are em-dashes. My cuticles are commas. My colon is a colon.
I donât wish to blow my own trombone, but I think this might be one of the best âWhy I writeâ quotes ever written.
2 September 2024:
Today I visited the doctor. I have been partially deaf in my left ear since having a hot bath on Saturday. I immediately Googled my symptoms and discovered that I was suffering from Sudden Sensorineural Hearing Loss (SSHL), most likely brought on by an acoustic neuroma (also known as a vestibular schwannoma) â essentially a brain tumour affecting the auditory nerve. As I explained this to my doctor this morning, I could tell he was impressed. How refreshing it must be for a patient to arrive at his appointment having researched and diagnosed his condition in advance. Whereas most patients probably turn up completely unprepared, thus relying entirely on the doctor to do all of the work, this is simply not in my nature. As an author, it is my duty to be well-read, hence why I spent the weekend comprehensively devouring literature about my condition on medical websites such as WebMD and Reddit. After hearing my diagnosis (and taking a token look inside my ear), the doctor prescribed me some ear wax removal drops and told me to come back to see him if the symptoms didnât go away. I knew what he was really saying. What he was really saying was, âWhile your own diagnosis is clearly correct, I must be seen to give you these drops in order to show that we have ruled out a more trivial ailment. Sorry; thatâs bureaucracy for you. When the drops donât work (and they wonât), come back and see me in a couple of days and we will commence proper treatment, starting with an MRI scan.â It is all rather worrying.
23 September 2024:
Today I received a comment criticising the quality of my writing. It didnât bother me at all. I have nothing but confidence in my writerly abilities. And besides, as a Serious Literary Author, I have more important things to worry about than the opinions of strangers online. Indeed, I didnât even give it a second thought. In fact, I didnât even give it a first thought â thatâs how utterly unmoved I was by the whole thing. When I clicked on his profile, it was immediately clear to me that he was, as young people might say, a âloserâ. His follower count may have been over five times higher than my own, but it was no doubt mostly comprised of idiots and bots, whereas my own followers are all discerning littĂ©rateurs. His profile picture was a simple âselfieâ, clearly taken with the inferior front camera rather than the rear. He was actually quite attractive, but in a rather obvious way, with good skin, hair and eyes. I was able to find his profile on various other online platforms, and after browsing all of the photos, managed to put together a fairly complete picture of where he lived. On arriving outside his house, I was immediately struck by how tackily large it was, and the same was true of the two Range Rovers sitting outside. Glancing through the window, I could see him sitting across from his wife, who was also very attractive, with a very nice face â again, all rather obvious. After clinking their wine glasses, they began tucking into a homemade spaghetti bolognese that clearly contained too much tomato sauce. This man had no taste or class and was in no position to pass any kind of judgement on my writing, let alone receive an ounce of my mental energy, I chuckled to myself on the train home.
28 September 2024:
Today I thought of an idea for a novel. I was delighted. I have been trying for a story for months, and finally one had arrived. I called my close friends and family to share the good news. I couldnât believe their response. There were no tears of joy; not even a single âcongratulationsâ. The best most could muster was a feeble âcoolâ or âthatâs greatâ. I was shocked and appalled. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised this is a problem that runs deep in our society. Where is the section for expecting authors in greeting card shops? Where is the paid writernity leave? The genre reveal parties? All too often, the rights and needs of authors are forgotten and ignored.
7 October 2024:
Today I noticed a typo in an email after sending it to multiple recipients. I was devastated. As a Serious Literary Author (SLA), it is my duty to uphold the highest writerly standards in all forms of communication. But somehow, a mistyped word had managed to evade my Serious Literary Proofreading Process (SLPP).
As I saw it, I had three options. The first was to immediately go to the recipientsâ homes and apprehend the email on their computers. But since they lived across the country, and two lived abroad, this did not seem particularly viable. The second option was to remotely hack into their computers, but this would require me to learn how to hack. In the end, I decided I had no choice but to follow up my email with another email in which I acknowledged the typo and apologised. This was an extremely painful message to write, but I knew, deep down in my colon, that by taking responsibility for my mistake, I would only grow as a writer.
I have noticed a typo in my follow-up email. I am heartbroken. To make one typo may be regarded as a misfortune; to make two looks like carelessness. I have now sent a third email to the recipients with a video attached in which I beg forgiveness and promise, through tears, that nothing like this will ever, ever happen agian.
I have just noticed a typo in the passage above. I am shattered. To make two typos looks like carelessness; to make three suggests a sudden neurodegenerative disease. I have made an urgent appointment with my doctor for this afternoon. As always, I have fully researched my condition online, which I know he appreciates. On this occasion, I have diagnosed myself with Dutch Elm Disease (DED).
Just saw doctor. Apparently DED only affects trees.
11 October 2024:
Today somebody asked if I have considered turning my diary into a podcast. I was shocked and appalled. As a Serious Literary Author, I have no time for podcasts. And besides, the problem with podcasts is that absolutely everybody has an idea for one. It is an epidemic. It is impossible to go for a coffee with an acquaintance these days without being forced to listen to their idea for a podcast. In fact, one could probably create a podcast entirely about peoplesâ ideas for podcasts! This is not an idea for a podcast.
21 October 2024:
Today I accidentally Googled myself. I was about to close the window when I noticed that I was not the first result for my own name. Above me was Daniel Piper Motor Services, a vehicle repair shop in Suffolk. I immediately telephoned the garage and asked to speak to Mr. Piper, who I then politely but firmly encouraged to consider changing his name. The vast majority of people Googling our name, I explained, would be looking for one thing: Serious Literary Writing. Indeed, literature is simply more useful and important to the general public than vehicle repairs. He said that if I was so concerned, I should change my name. I couldnât believe it. I told him that as a Serious Literary Author, my name is sacrosanct. He then said, âHello, Sacrosanctâ. I smiled, realising I was not talking to a writer, then helpfully explained that the word sacrosanct is in fact an adjective, which means I was using it to describe my name; to denote that my name is precious. He then said, âHello, Preciousâ. It was at this point that I realised he was lampooning me. Furious, I immediately set off to make my demands in person. Unfortunately, just before I arrived, my car broke down.
22 October 2024:
Today I accidentally misspoke while ordering a coffee at my local cafe. Whereas I normally order an oat flat white, today I fancied almond milk instead. When I reached the counter, I asked the barista for an âoat flat white with almond milkâ. She hesitated, and I immediately realised my mistake. I was mortified. As a Serious Literary Author, it is my duty to display a superior command of the English language. To stumble over my words suggests Writerly Weakness, which I cannot abide. Therefore, I had no choice but to commit to my error. The barista asked if I had meant an oat flat white or a flat white with almond milk, and I said no, I wanted an oat flat white with almond milk. A couple of minutes later, she warily handed me my two-milk coffee. âPerfect,â I said, taking a sip of the revolting drink. I then turned and strolled towards the exit. As I reached the door, a second barista said, âEnjoy your coffee,â and I accidentally replied, âYou too.â I then had no choice but to turn around and order a coffee for him.
25 October 2024:
Today I visited my local bookshop. While queuing to pay, I heard the assistant say âGood choiceâ as she scanned a book. I leaned forward to see what the customer had chosen. It was the latest novel by Mainstream Millennial Author Sally Rooney. She then said âGood choiceâ to the next customer, who had chosen the latest novel by TikTok Author Colleen Hoover. I couldnât help but chuckle. If she approved of these Unserious Literary Selections, she would surely be delighted by mine. After all, as a Serious Literary Author, I only ever purchase quality literature by fellow SLAs. When it was finally my turn, I handed her a copy of Penguin Classicsâ new complete translation of Kafkaâs diaries, and awaited her response. She scanned it silently, and said nothing as she placed it in a paper bag and handed it back to me. I gave her a Knowing Literary Smile. Clearly she was so overwhelmed by the sublimity of my choice that she was unable to process it in the moment. I imagine she will experience Delayed Onset Literary Euphoria at some point this evening.
2 November 2024:
I have been working on my new spy novel featuring Secret Agent Luke Warm. I am particularly proud of the following highly literary passage in which Agent Warm receives a stern telling off from The Chief following a mission in Paris that ended in destruction.
Agent Warm entered The Chiefâs office. The Chief was standing behind his desk, facing the back wall with his back to Warm to show his anger.
âSir.â
The Chief turned around. His face was furious, with furrowed eyebrows and angry lips. He was holding a pile of newspapers. He tossed one onto the desk. It landed the right way up, with headline facing Warm: DESTRUCTION IN PARIS. He threw down another one, which also landed the right way up: PARIS BLAST WREAKS HAVOC. He threw a third one down, which also landed the right way up: FRENCH EXPLOSION KILLS HUNDREDS.
âI suppose I donât need to tell you how angry I am,â The Chief said, his deep, angry voice conveying his anger. âI had the PM on the phone this morning. He wants to know why one of my agents blew up the Eiffel Tower yesterday. Well? What happened?â
Warm raised an eyebrow. âLetâs just say it was an explosive situation.â
The Chief banged a fist on the desk. âThis is not the time for your quips,â he said furiously, âAlthough that was a good one. Tell me what happened.â
Warm raised his other eyebrow. âI had to make a French exit.â
The Chief banged his other fist on the desk. âNo jokes!â He said. âAlthough that one was also very good.â
âI was tailing Dimitri Molotov.â
âThe Russian bomb maker?â The Chief sat down, his anger giving way to interested interestedness. âWhy?â
Warm leaned forward. âEiffel. CN. Blackpool. Alton. Leaning of Pisa. What do they all have in common?â
âTheyâre all towers,â said The Chief.
âAnd?â Said Warm.
The Chiefâs eyes widened. âTheyâve all blown up in the last month.â He leaned forward. âAre you saying it isnât a coincidence?â
âI donât believe in coincidences,â replied Warm. âI began to suspect Molotov after I spotted him in the CCTV footage of each explosion, parachuting from the tower moments before the blast.â
âGood God!â exclaimed The Chief. âDo you think heâs involved?â
18 November 2024:
Today I went to a cafe to write. When I sat down, I found that my table was wobbly because the foot of one of the legs had become loose. As a Serious Literary Author, I require a motionless table. When the barista brought over my oat flat white, I was crouching under the table, trying to screw the loose foot back in. I looked up at her and said, âIâm just trying to find the right hole.â She seemed to this find rather amusing. I was baffled, and spent the next thirty minutes wondering what was so funny. Suddenly it hit me. It sounded sexual! As I passed her on my way out a couple of hours later, I made a rare decision. I decided to join in on the joke. I raised an eyebrow and quipped, âI just thought youâd like to know I managed to find the right hole.â She looked confused, and I realised she was a different barista. Embarrassed, I went to exit the cafe, but accidentally walked into the kitchen. I should not try to make jokes.
2 December 2024:
Today I tried to write but found that I could not. My pen simply would not move. At first I thought my notebook must be faulty, and that the paper must be too abrasive for my pen, but when I took out my iPad and Magic Keyboard Folio, I found that I could not write with that either. No matter how hard they tried, my fingers could not depress the keys. It was then that I realised what was happening to me. It was Writerâs Block. For the first time in over twenty years, I have been struck down by perhaps the worldâs most cruel and merciless disease. I immediately went to the emergency room at my nearest hospital, only to discover that the medical communityâs understanding of this serious condition has not improved over the last two decades. When she finally saw me, the nurse refused to prescribe me any medication. No antibiotics, no cream, no suppository, not even a nasal spray. She simply told me I might be stressed, and gave me some breathing exercises to try. I left feeling despondent and alone. All I can do now is hope that I soon enter wrimission. For a Serious Literary Author, the thought of suffering from blockage for weeks, months or even years is too much to bear.
11 January 2025:
Today is my birthday. This means nothing to me. As a Serious Literary Author, I do not measure my life in years. At the end of every day I take the number of words I have written and add it to my life total. When I went to bed last night, I was 8,693,427 words old. I do not understand modern societyâs obsession with age and years. I have no idea how old I am in non-literary terms. I stopped counting that way millions of words ago. All I know is that it is not years but words that give my face its lines. After a particularly intense day of writing, my face might age by the equivalent of ten years for a normal person. During one particularly productive day in which I wrote over twenty short stories last week, I developed five new crowâs feet. Am I ashamed of physical changes like this? No. Every wrinkle is a literary trophy. A testament to a life lived right. A life lived write.
12 January 2025:
I am writing these words on a plane. It is not often that I travel by plane, but I have decided to treat myself to a city break for my birthday. Before takeoff, the flight attendants performed a safety demonstration. We were asked to give this our full attention, but I was shocked and appalled to observe that several passengers around me were not concentrating at all. Many were wearing headphones, looking at their phones or playing on their Sony Gameboys. As a Serious Literary Author, I often feel like the only person paying attention to the world around me. I made sure to absorb every single detail of the safety demonstration, then gave the flight attendant a knowing nod to show her I understood that in the unlikely event of an emergency, it would be down to us to ensure the safety of the rest of the passengers.
7 February 2025:
Today I have been working on my new spy novel featuring Secret Agent Luke Warm. I am especially proud of the following passage, which I think contains some of my best Serious Literary Writing yet (including some expertly handled Serious Literary Eroticism):
âDisappeared!?!?â
The Chief couldnât believe what he was hearing. âA whole space shuttle???? Good God⊠Yes, Iâll get my best man on the case right away!!!!!â
He put down the red telephone, strode across his office and called out to his secretary. âMiss Bosomby!!!! Is Agent Warm back from that African job yet????â
Miss Busomby looked up from her typewriter.
âHeâs on his last leg, sir.â
Luke Warm slid his hand further up the air hostessâs thigh (re-read last line of previous scene!!!!). They were lying together and kissing etc. on the bonkette-style seating thing on an Apollo Airways N5VH private jet.
âAny higher, Mr Warm, and my ears will pop,â the air hostess purred in a seductively non-British accent.
âI donât think Iâm ever going to fly with anyone else,â Warm commented suavely. It wasnât clear whether he meant any other airline or any other air hostess, which was very clever.
âYouâre so right, Mr Warm,â said the air hostess â then she pulled out a gun and pointed it at him!!!! This was completely shocking and unexpected and suggested she was not as friendly as she seemed!!!!!
10 March 2025:
Today I went to my favourite cafe to write. It was going well until a young woman placed a tray on the table next to mine, sat down, took out her phone and filmed herself announcing, âIâve opted for the almond croissant and the pain au chocolat, and they both look delicious... letâs find out!â She then watched back the clip and, clearly unhappy with her performance, recorded herself saying it again. This time she stumbled over the word âchocolatâ, so she started again. She watched it back, then started again. By this point I was becoming quite distracted from my sonnet, which, for a Serious Literary Author, is an unacceptable state of affairs. But the young woman continued to repeat the phrase in various upbeat cadences: âIâve opted for the almond croissant and the pain au chocolat, and they both look delicious⊠letâs find out!â
By the time she began her seventh attempt, I knew I had no choice but to take action. If she was going to disrupt my poetry writing, then I was going to disrupt her content creation. I took out my own phone and filmed myself announcing, as loudly as possible, âIâve opted to deploy a subtle half-rhyme in the next line, which I think is really going to elevate the whole stanza⊠letâs find out!â I could sense the young woman looking at me incredulously. I repeated the line again. After I had repeated it for a third time, she asked if I would mind being a little quieter. I repeated the line even more loudly. Clearly furious, she attempted to speak over me with her own line, but I successfully drowned her out, shouting at the top of my voice: âIâve opted to deploy a subtle half-rhyme in the next line, which I think is really going to elevate the whole stanza⊠letâs find out!â It was at this point that the manager asked us both to leave, citing the cafeâs âno influencersâ policy.
7 April 2025:
Today I was asked for my signature while checking in to a hotel. I politely informed the receptionist that I do not give autographs. As a Serious Literary Author, I am against the concepts of ego and fame. I cannot partake in any activity that perpetuates them. She insisted that the signature was simply a requirement of the check-in process. Clearly this was a ruse designed to extract the autograph from me. When I refused again, she called for the manager, who also told me the signature was standard administrative procedure. Clearly he was in on the scheme. I calmly explained that whilst I appreciated that they were both such fans of my work, if I were to give them my autograph, I would have to do the same for the many others who often ask for it, such as delivery drivers. Unbelievably, even after this explanation, they still wouldnât let it drop. No signature, no room, they said. Well, fans or not, I wasnât going to abandon my SLA principles for them. I told them I would take my business elsewhere.
21 April 2025:
Last night while walking through the park I was approached by a hooded young man who asked me for the time. I looked at my watch and told him it had just gone quarter-past seven. âOn your phone,â he said. I was a little surprised. While I knew that Gen Z were digital natives, I didnât know they distrusted the accuracy of the analogue watch. I took my phone from my pocket and told him the exact time: seventeen past seven. He offered me a glimpse of something metallic in his pocket and told me to hand him my phone. It was at this moment that I realised I was being mugged. I was shocked and appalled. He told me to hurry up or I would âget shankedâ. Since I had no desire to be shanked and appalled, I agreed to hand him the phone, but on one condition; that he permit me to reset it to factory settings first. This, I explained, was because my Notes application contained several unfinished poems. As a Serious Literary Author, I could not afford for these to fall into the wrong hands. If a writerly rival (wrival) gained access to my draft poems, they would likely try to pass them off as their own. For all I knew, he might end up selling my phone to another author â or he might even be an author himself. Besides, I added, an unlocked phone would be much easier to sell. It was the last point that seemed to convince him. He told me to do it quickly (again, lest I get shanked), so I immediately began the Erase and Install process. As the progress bar began its crawling journey, the young man became increasingly agitated, repeatedly looking over his shoulder. When it still wasnât finished after five minutes, he demanded an update. I told him it was almost done, and must be taking a long time because of the sheer volume (and quality) of the poems. He told me to give him the phone, but I insisted on seeing the process through myself; if anything were to go wrong and cause it to cancel, my face would be required to unlock the phone again. I was simply trying to help. His agitation increased, particularly when he spotted the pair of dog walkers walking towards us. Give me the phone, he said. I told him I would oblige shortly; the Restore process was mere seconds away from completion. Sure enough, the phone emitted a welcoming âdingâ as the word âHelloâ appeared on the screen. The two dog walkers were close now. Give me the phone now, he said. Of course, I said, but first, what language do you require for the phone? Since he was clearly in such a rush, I explained, the least I could do was help speed things along by assisting him with the setup process. With the dog walkers now mere metres away, I watched the young man mentally weighing up his options. He then emitted a frustrated shout and ran away into the trees. I smiled to myself as I exited the park. As a Serious Literary Author, I do not write poems on my phone.
2 June 2025:
Today a brand contacted me and asked if I would consider writing a sponsored diary entry. I was shocked and appalled. As a Serious Literary Author, I am against the concept of advertising. I told them in no uncertain terms that my writing is not for sale.
Afterwards I felt so sullied by the exchange that I was compelled to wash my hands with Aesop Resurrection Aromatique Hand Wash, which, with its gently aromatic formulation containing oils of orange, rosemary and lavender, leaves the hands smooth, purified and refreshed without drying them out.
26 May 2025:
Yesterday was my wedding day. I was not expecting to cry. As an SLA I must save my deepest feelings for my writing, which means I only shed tears at my writing desk. However as soon as I saw my wife walking down the aisle I began to weep, and I was unable to stop for the rest of the day. I struggled to make it through my (brilliant) self-penned vows, then took four whole minutes to successfully say, âI do.â The tears also impaired my vision, causing me to place my wifeâs ring on her thumb then kiss the registrar.
I continued to cry throughout the afternoon and into the evening. At lunch I was unable to hold a conversation, responding to all questions with a sobbing moan. My speech, which I had spent months writing, was reduced to just vowels.
All told, it was an eventful day. But perhaps the most remarkable thing about it is that whilst I was crying, I was happy. This is a new and confusing feeling for a Serious Literary Author.
8 September 2025:
I have been forced to take a job. This is a sorry state of affairs for a Serious Literary Author, but my wife says I need to contribute more financially. I tried to argue that the fruits of my literary labour â my stories and poems â ought to be enough compensation for my work, but my wife says poems wonât pay the mortgage.
I have secured the role of âStaff Writerâ at a website called âPopTechâ. My job is to write âshort and grabby storiesâ about âtech and pop cultureâ, which I assume means technology and soft drinks. Apparently my stories must be âSEO optimisedâ and âeCom focussedâ. I have no idea what these words mean.
Today was my first day in the role. This morning my editor asked me to write a quick story about the release of the new iPhone. I wrote a brilliant socio-political-historical-economic essay, drawing parallels between the smartphone and various symbols of temptation from across literature, myth and religion, including Kamadeva, the Hindu god of lust, and Tantalus, who in Greek mythology is punished with eternal thirst and hunger. The essay powerfully concluded that the iPhone serves as capitalismâs replacement for Satan himself. I managed to skilfully argue this in just under nine thousand words (plus footnotes).
When I submitted the piece at the end of the day, my editor suggested I âslightly tweak the angleâ to, â3 reasons why I canât wait for the new iPhoneâ, and include an affiliate link to purchase it.
17 December 2025:
We now have a puppy. Last month my wife discovered we live a few doors down from a breeder of golden retrievers. A litter of ten was born last month, with one, a girl, yet to find a home. It was, as my wife put it, âmeant to beâ.
At first I was hesitant. As a Serious Literary Author, I have little time for anything other than writing. I am often too preoccupied with my prose to eat or sleep, let alone look after a dog. But my wife appealed to my literary nature, pointing out that several acclaimed authors were famously dog lovers. And besides, she said, what could be more literary than typing away with a loyal hound at my feet?
Once we had decided to take the dog, it was time to choose a name. I wanted to call her Dostoevsky, but my wife wanted to call her Fleur. After some back-and-forth, I agreed to compromise and call her Dogstoevsky. After some more back-and-forth, I agreed to compromise and call her Fleur.
Fleur arrived last week, and I can already resolutely say that dog ownership is not what I thought it would be. In fact, the whole experience has been truly shocking and appalling.
The tribulations began the moment Fleur entered the house. She immediately started feverishly chewing at things including my clothes, my feet and my Complete Works of Shakespeare. The latter is now missing several pages, significantly altering the plot of Richard III.
During the assault, I commanded Fleur to âSitâ, but she ignored me and carried on defacing me and my posessions. I then told her to âStopâ, but still she continued her skirmish. She did not respond to âCeaseâ, âConcludeâ, âTerminateâ, or âDiscontinueâ, and when I finally placed a copy of Proust in front of her to calm her down, she destroyed that too.
It was at this point that my wife told me Fleur could not understand me, and that she would need to be trained. I was shocked and appalled. I had assumed that dogs arrived with all commands preinstalled. I do not have time to teach a dog to sit, stop or read Proust. I have writing to write.
But the most shocking and appalling aspect of the whole situation has been her daily excretions. Fleur must be watched and managed at all times, lest she relieve herself inside the house. She must be taken outside to âgo pottyâ on the hour, every hour. Unfortunately, timekeeping is not one of my primary skills. As I wept upon discovering Fleur had soiled yet another of my manuscripts, my wife suggested it was time to start a poo diary.
A poo diary.
I, a renowned diarist, have been forced to employ my own medium, the very art form I have mastered over years of practice, to record bowel movements. Shocking and appalling does not begin to cover it.
And yet, despite all of these egregious provocations, I find myself unreasonably fond of Fleur. When she looks at me, even if she has just done something impermissible, I am overcome with affection. It is highly confusing.
9 February 2026:
Today my wife left me. One moment she was there, the next she was gone, leaving me alone and bereft in a cold, quiet, empty house. I tried pouring my heartâs sorrow into writing, but found that I could not. No sooner did the ink leave my pen than it was dissolved by my tears. I tried making something to eat, but the items in the fridge spoke a foreign language, and I lacked the vision to translate them into a single plate of food the way my wife could. I decided to distract myself from my despair with household chores. I stripped the bed and placed the bedding into the washing machine. Tragically, however, I found I could not locate the detergent. I fell to the floor in an anguished heap. If only I had been a better husband, I wept. If only I had been more attentive. If only I had listened. It was at this point that she came back. Apparently she had told me she was going to the shop to buy detergent.
Look, just subscribe to Daniel Piper. Funniest British humor since Fawlty Towers. That's it. That's the pitch.
i read to 'realised' and can confirm the british