Sir Guy of Gisborne's Diary

Entry 12

Dear Diary,

I have neglected writing in you for far too long, but when I commit the awfulness that happened to me shortly after the New Year, you will understand why.

After my shitty Christmas, and still mourning tearing the fishnet stockings the sheriff gave me, two terrible things befell me, so terrible that more than once I contemplated jumping off the battlements.

My dog, Mr Paws, died while being taken for a walk by one of the sheriff's lackeys. I don't believe for one moment that he slipped his leash (Mr Paws, that is, not the lackey) and plunged from the battlements - I mean, who takes a dog for a walk on the top of a castle anyway?

I believe the sheriff was jealous of the affection I showed the dog and decided to get rid of him. I was terribly upset and cried all the way through dinner and the Council of Nobles meeting. Then, to top it all, I lost Marian. Not the human, living breathing woman of my heart's desire, but the doll I got for Christmas, the one whose dress and hair I'd lovingly blackened with the piece of coal I got in my stocking, the one I cuddled at night and told all my deepest darkest secrets to. She, like my teddy bear Binky, got chucked down the privy by the sheriff who said I was a complete prissy for playing with dolls and the next thing I knew I'd be playing with tea sets and using my socks as hand puppets (I didn't let on that I already do that with my socks - they have voices and everything).

Anyway, the loss of both Mr Paws and dolly Marian in the space of a week drove me to the pits of despair and I have no doubt that the sheriff would have chucked me onto a pile of night soil in nothing but my undergarments were it not for the fact that he got called away to London on some business or other and I was left free to wallow in my dog-less, doll-less misery.

Unsupervised, I turned to drink, neglected my duties and my dress sense (I started wearing mustard-coloured undershirts for goodness sake!) and generally let myself go to the dogs [Mr Paws, sniff, sniff]. Such was my misery that I even stopped writing in you, dear diary. In fact, more than once I thought about throwing you onto the fire, except that none of the servants would tend my room while I was in such a state and so there was no fire.

Then the sheriff returned from London, full of cheer for whatever reason. He had bought me a present: a leather man bag. It was great and had lots of pockets and fancy stitching that I could only dream of mastering in my leathercraft classes. Better than the bag (actually no, not better than the bag because the bag was just the best) he bought back some new staff: more guards to replace the ones we lost over the Christmas period, a new scribe (a deaf mute) and, best of all, a young man whose name and job I was not told but who I soon figured must be visiting the sheriff's bedchamber of an evening as I was no longer called upon to service Vaisey.

These things considerably buoyed my mood. I smartened myself up and gave up drinking overnight (I still drink in the daytime, you understand).

So, here we are, you and me, diary, back in business. Spring is coming, the buds are budding and the sap is rising (whenever I think of Marian my sap often rises and even overflows sometimes).

Time to get on with things, these three especially -

1. Get back to wooing Marian

2. Catch blasted Robin Hood

3. Buy some nice things to go in my new man bag

Yes, things are looking up, aren't they Mr Sock? (Mr Sock says yes and don't forget it's wash day next month).