22 October 2026
Thursday. Somebody has put my logbook on the internet. I would like it back when they’re done.
If you’re reading this, you should know what’s in it and what isn’t. What’s in it: weather, soil, the cat, the pairs who go into my plots of an evening and the state they leave them in. What isn’t: one word about how they get out. I don’t know how they get out. I have never asked. I fill holes. That’s the job.
The gentleman in the top hat, I’m told, keeps a diary of his own, a fancy one, with wax. I have not read it. I have no wish to read it. I expect it says a great deal about hats.
News, since I’ve an audience. Two more plots are going in on Collins Street in Melbourne, booked for the first of March. I have offered to go over and show them how it’s done. They have not said no.
Wipe your boots on the way out. And if you’re coming to see the plots in person, bring one other person you trust, and nobody else. That part’s not my rule. It’s the boxes’.
— H., groundskeeper
