2nd November, 1885.

I groggily came to some time later, my head resting on the desk. The chimes of the clock on the mantle indicated that it was now seven o'clock in the morning. Bollocks, I thought.

I gingerly sat up in my chair, a sheet of paper stuck to my cheek. I peeled the sheet off of my face and looked at it. It took a moment for the words on the page to come into focus, but when they did I was dismayed to find that there was little of use on the page, only scrawled attempts to pen an opening line. I peered closer. 'It was a dark and stormy night', read the first line, which had subsequently been crossed out. 'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,' had been similarly scratched out, with a note written below it which said, 'Too bloody Dickensian.' Underneath that, in big, bold letters was simply written the words, 'BUGGER IT.'

I lowered the page and surveyed my desk. The surface was littered with empty whisky bottles, half a glass of wine and an ashtray brimming with cigarette ends. Clearly the previous night's creative efforts had not gone smoothly.

As I slumped back in my seat, Botcher entered the room, carrying a tray with some freshly-brewed coffee upon it.

"Morning, sleepyhead!" he chirped, entirely too cheerfully. It always seemed like his mood would brighten whenever I was suffering.

"Must you be so happy?" I moaned, rubbing my temples. " Can you not see that I am afflicted?"

"Well, it's an affliction of your own making, mush. You ordered enough drink to put a distillery out of business!" Botcher grinned as he placed the coffee down in front of me.

"Ah!" I exclaimed as I eagerly scooped the cup up into my hands. "Coffee! So, you do care after all, Botcher!"

"Pffft. I just don't want to be dealing with your hangover all day. You're a right pain in the arse on the morning after." Botcher said as he began piling the empty whisky glasses onto his tray. "How did the writing go, anyhow?"

"Terribly," I admitted. "Literature is a complete bastard. I think I may have writer's block."

"Either that or it's all the steak and truffles you ate last night," Botcher replied. "Maybe you've put too much pressure on yourself. You never seem to struggle for words when you're writing those diaries of yours!" 

I sat bolt upright, suddenly invigorated by my man-servant's words. Or it was more likely the coffee taking effect, clearing the alcoholic haze from my mind. "Bugger me sideways! That might be the first intelligent thing you've ever said!" I cried, as I leapt up from my chair and hurried across to a cabinet on the other side of the room. I surreptitiously pulled a small key from my waistcoat pocket and turned it in the lock. "I'll simply take my diaries to a publisher! They're already written! And believe you and me, there is plenty of sensational material contained within!"

"Oh, I know..." Muttered Botcher.

"Pardon?" I asked as I retrieved the leather-bound volumes from within the cabinet.

"Nothing, nothing," Botcher smiled. "So you're going to take the diaries in as they are?"

"Absolutely!" I beamed. "They'll cause a monumental stir! Any publisher would be a fool to pass them up! Furthermore, as they're already written I shan't have to do any more work, which is precisely the amount of work I favour. Ready the carriage, Botcher! We're heading to London!"

As I eagerly scampered towards the door, Botcher let out a gentle cough. The sort of gentle cough that would always precede him saying something that was far from gentle.

"Ahem. Before we depart, I think you should know that The Guv wishes to speak to you."

I stopped, my hand hovering over the knob (door, not penis). My heart sank.

The Guv. Another headache to add on top of my existing one.

- Lord Likely.