Dear diary,

A melancholy has come upon me. I am a fool with an unspeakable, uncurable sickness.

At the tavern this evening, Sir Roger and his friends were speaking of the fairness of the maidens in the village, and I, the fool that I am asked if anyone else did think and agree that;

“Miss Emily would be twice the treat were she to grow the fangs and whiskers of the she-wolf”

They looked at me as a man beset by madness! Realising my error, I panicked and quickly exclaimed;

“Tis merely a jest! Take nothing earnest in mine utterances!”

But they did not stop laughing, until everyone in the room, which is nearly everyone in the village of any standing, was also laughing.

They attempted to mock me by initiating mock-courting, interspersed with howling and growling.

I fled home, ashamed, a fool. As I write this now, every five minutes I hear a howl and some giggling from outside my window.

There must not be another man alive who would understand me and my shameful sickness. Why must I desire this ungodly blend of woman and beast?

I shall leave for London in the morning, to find a cure, or failing that, to meet my end.