22 October 2026
Thursday. Somebody has put my private diary on the internet. I want it noted that I was out at the shops at the time.
If you have read this far, you have opened the wrong diary. The one you want, the one with everything a guest ought to know, is on the table in my locker. You will have to come round on the floor to read it, and I am sure you will. Everybody does.
This one is mine. It contains menus, grievances, seating plans and recipes, and not one useful word about leaving. I have checked. Twice. A host who leaves the way out in two diaries is not generous; he is disorganised.
News, since I have an audience: a third kitchen is being fitted out in Brisbane, some time in the first half of next year. I have not been told the night. I have been told to stop asking. I have bought an apron for the occasion anyway.
U. says I should welcome my readers properly. Very well. Welcome. Wipe your feet. Dinner is at eight.
— B., your host
