16:04 Notes from the worlds smallest, oldest, stuffiest bar and I'm in it which probably says far more about me than this place, which you'd have to remake out of tweed and pomp to get any more stuffy.
16:08 A sonorous silence- like a broken church bell, a pub where the tick of the clock is louder then the slurp of the beer.
16:09 Amazing, this must be where coffins go to die.
16:10 I feel lost without my powdered wig. Perhaps Mrs Miggins will drop by with some pies.
16:11 I have decided to forge a coalition with Charles Fox and trample those accurs'd Whigs once and for all.
16:12 Charles Dickens spills a pint of porter over Mrs Pintspill, we decide to wait 50 years for the invention of post-modern irony before we laugh.
16:13 Press charges against urchin who stole my silk 'kerchief'. He is to be hung at Tyburn on the morrow.
16:14 Pray for gout.
16:16 Decide to keep this diary - like Pepys who left the pub 5 minutes ago.
16:17 Remind self to learn difference between tipping the barmaid and tupping the barmaid, could be important.
16:18 Learn that the barman is Polish - he probably fought for King Leopald the Badly Named at the battle of Litsterineguard and received a ha'penny pension for each of his lost limbs.
16:19 Broke second best quill.
16:20 Leave, am praying not to meet footpad on way back to my farm in Islington fields.