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December 20, 1677

Ouch. Bloody well ouch.

The position I find myself in is not entirely unfamiliar. I am sat down to compose an account for you of my doings this past week, and yet I find my memory as reluctant to perform its assigned task as my head is sore—which is a considerable amount. In fact, the more I think on it, the more there is a part of me that rebels outright at the prospect of vouchsafing an account of the last few days, as if my having knowledge of the events I have been involved in were somehow more terrible even than the fact of my involvement.

But I will start with what I do know, and perhaps we can piece together the remainder. First, an accounting: I am minus one boot, a gold ring that I had been accustomed to wear lately, the hair of my left eyebrow (which appears to have been singed off), two matchlock muskets, and a pair of velvet breeches. I am plus a silver crucifix of uncertain value, a blood-stained hat that by the looks of it belonged to a sailor, a great bruise on my thigh and another on my cheek, £50 sterling (nearly enough to buy me a small cottage in the country), and a one-eyed hunting dog who will not leave off barking at me.

I remember very well leaving the house a few days ago to meet with a Dutchman from the East India Company at The Griffin. I also remember accompanying him to his home for some drinks and a game of cards, during which I became quite irate and left either because I caught someone cheating or because someone caught me cheating. I am quite certain that I also attended some abysmal play in cheapside, but beyond that I can dredge up very little at all except a strong suspicion that I will not be welcome back in the Crimson Unicorn in the foreseeable future. I arrived home yesterday morning, and Patrick kindly helped me to my bed and brought me tea, after which I did not wake until just now, when this dog began barking at me. Well, we shall trust God that I have not done any lasting damage.

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