The Diary of a Nobody

Six weeks of Charles Pooter's diary have been torn out and burned to light the sitting-room fire, and the charwoman swears she never touched the book. He records the outrage, along with the vase he smashed while making a smart reply about it. A City clerk of twenty years' standing, Pooter sets down everything: the boot-scraper that fells every caller at the side door, the bath he enamels red with alarming results, the son home from the bank at Oldham, renamed Lupin, who brings opinions, share tips and an engagement.

Nobody at home reads a line of it. Carrie walks out mid-recital; Lupin thinks Holloway a bit off. What survives is a portrait of ordinary dignity under daily siege, and an English adjective, Pooterish, that outlasted him.