Charles Nevin: My accountant saved me from being a bore

Time is running out. Nearly the end of January, and I still haven't got a diary. In the old days, people used to send me a diary for free. For a few years it was my firm of accountants. Their diary was one of those thin, tall, black shiny ones, possibly leather, I didn't ask too many questions, with the little gold bits on the corners, just the size for my inside pocket. It had their name emblazoned on the outside, also in gold, in rather larger letters than I would have thought strictly necessary, but I could live with that.

Then, though, we started to drift apart. Just the little things at first, like the increased fees and being passed around the partners, as if they didn't really, you know, respect me; and there was that Inland Revenue quibble with the use of home as office allowance: we never really recovered from that. It's a very delicate relationship, the one between a man and his accountant. Ask anybody. They were fine diaries, though.

My new accountants don't send me a diary. This wasn't a problem the first year, as my carpet cleaners sent me one; or last year, because, after an anxious period, a reader from Muncie, Indiana, sent me one sponsored by a local hardware store, which, though plastic, had a certain irono-kitsch appeal, I thought. It also had some splendid thoughts for the week, from people new to me, such as the Rev W A Nance: "We make a living from what we get; we make a life by what we give." Splendid.

This year, nothing. I have been forced to make inquiries of Jimmy, my newsagent. Jimmy keeps promising to get some from the cash-and-carry, but I think he's just humouring me. I won't say it's becoming an obsession, but I do find myself paying particular attention when people talk about diaries. Which is why I was so taken with a line on the television the other day. Someone was banging on about something really boring, and, eventually, his exasperated auditor (yes, curiously, it means that as well) said: "Why don't you keep a diary?"

Two things. It was actually Dr Frasier Crane, on his eponymous sitcom, but I've mentioned him here before, and we commentators do like to demonstrate a bit of eager salon-haunting rather than the uncanny ability to be in the same place on the sofa every Friday night. And I know he wasn't talking about the sort of diary I want, with the weekly display and little space by each day (eg, "Friday, 25 January: 10 pm, Frasier"); nevertheless, he's on to something there, isn't he?

Imagine the dreary conversations you would be spared if everybody kept a detailed diary of their innermost thoughts and consuming interests. They wouldn't have the energy, after writing it all down. You will have your favourites, the ones that make your jaw ache because you've had that smile of fixed interest fixed for so long; let me tell you a few of mine.

Dreams. Have you ever been in the slightest bit interested in someone else's dream? They don't make any sense and they go on and on, until, blow me, that's amazing, he or she is naked, and so is the Queen. I've always been amazed that Joseph managed to keep awake through all that guff from the Pharaoh about the ears of corn and the cows. Still, at least he wasn't telling him about his deja-vu.

Houses, schools, other people's children, illnesses, where we went on holiday, where are we going on holiday, films you haven't seen, stories about people you've never met, last night's television programmes, bad luck experiences with professionals and tradesmen, obviously exaggerated, the expounding of theories, usually in the field of geopolitics, before 10 in the morning. I could go on. Sorry? All right. Fair point. Exactly. So send me a diary, now.

c.nevin@independent.co.uk