Mollie Lovecraft's Diary

Updated: Jun 28, 2021

Mollie Lovecraft's Diary, 1891


Love to me is rather simple. However overcomplicated it may seem, it always comes down to deciding whether or not we choose to love a certain someone. For me, I simply choose to not.

I don't believe in 'falling' in love. I believe we tumble headfirst down the rabbit hole and often break our necks upon impact.

I know it's rather terrible of me and I know I shouldn't judge each gentleman as harshly as I do, but the men who've seen me thus far have nothing of worth to offer me it would seem. Nothing I can’t get or do by myself that is.

They shower me with gifts, with words of adoration and promises of the future. Men who do not know a single thing about my mind. God forbid if they knew the things that are written down in this diary, let alone in my head, I should think they'd revoke their proposals instantly. It would take a very brave man to stay, but is that what I am looking for? Bravery?

If I were to be looking for my true match, which at present I am not, I would start by looking for someone inquisitive. I know that may sound strange, but everything feels disingenuous to me nowadays. The flowers mean nothing for they do not know which flower is my favourite. The words they speak mean nothing for they know not what I read or how I write, nor do they care. They have no desire to learn about my memories, my challenges, my hopes or my dreams. They just wish for me to bend to theirs.

An inquisitive man is interested in learning, as am I. They long to learn, to understand, to pick things apart. I long to be studied and I want to study in return. I have yet to meet a man who really looks at me, who asks for my opinion with the full intention of listening.

The only one who gets close to a type of hearing is our horrid neighbour, Mr Adam Aldridge, but he only listens so he can mock and jest at anything and everything I do and say!

One day I shall cut his flowerbeds whilst he sleeps, in retribution for some of the terrible things he's said to me. I haven't decided when but it shall be soon if he carries on.

Sarah Parker, performing the January 1st monologue: Check out Sarah's socials - Instagram: @sarahparkerxx | Twitter: @sarahparkerxo


I had to sit for the most ghastly painter today. He sneezed into his palette and as if no one had noticed, continued to paint my portrait with the mucus infected colouring! I was appalled and quickly called for tea, sending him home. The last thing I need right now is to catch a cold. There are many terrible diseases spreading as of late. On-air of caution, the portrait is currently in the servant's fire, burning happily.

Portraits of myself, I don't much care for. They don't seem to look like me, no matter how long I sit for them. I've put it down to the nose. My eyes are rather easily done, as are the brows and the lips are child's play. They always seem to make my nose far too long.

As Mr. Aldridge likes to remind me, my nose is as round as a button and upturned which apparently makes me appear 'snooty'. I should add that he quickly followed 'snooty' with, 'A snooty nose to match a snooty personality.'

It wasn't long after that comment, a terrible tragedy befell his tulips.


My last entry was rather brief, so I thought I'd write a longer one today, full of refreshing reflections on that atrocity we call 'love'. Yes, I am back on that topic again, for it never seems to leave me.

Every day I am questioned and quizzed by a whole variety of people.

'Better any marriage at all than none.' My Auntie said the other day over brunch.

It's becoming rather exhausting having to defend myself, especially since marriage is the furthest thing from my mind.

I have a lovely home and a lovely quiet to my life. I don't wish for that to end.

I'm lucky to have as much money as I do and it is more than enough for me to get by until my dying day, so financially I'll be losing that ownership should I agree to "what's mine is yours" etc. I did try to explain this to Auntie Beatrice but she was having none of it.

Presently as I write, I'm looking out of my bay window at poor Mr Aldridge. It brings a smile to my face seeing his devastated flower beds. He's attempting to re-pot and salvage, but I made sure that mission was unachievable by slashing the stems.

My heart smirks. Maybe this feeling is something similar to love? This overwhelming pure enjoyment and smug pride. The adrenaline it gives me to make his life utterly miserable.


I had to momentarily pause in my musings for the retched man noticed my looking at him and thought I was leering! He called up to my open window with hands full of the saddest looking flowers and accused me outright.

Naturally, I played the innocent. He has no evidence to charge me with. I had been cunningly careful to wait until evening to tear at the stems and I'd waited until all lights had been turned out. Not a servant in sight.

The crease in Mr Aldridge’s brow was venomous when I confessed ‘I had no idea what he was talking about.’ And ‘How dare he accuse a lady!’ Then out of nowhere he dropped the petals and invited me to his family gala next weekend. I'm fantastic at lying, but it didn't take much to turn him around. This made me instantly suspicious, so I declined.

Well, I declined until he mentioned that Clementina Black would be in attendance. Her Pamphlet last year On Marriage is something I've read over and over again. The chance to talk to her, to rifle through her thoughts would be a marvel.

I tried not to let the excitement show on my face and accepted quickly before closing my window upon his closing statement.

Clementina Black, imagine that, how someone as rude as Mr Aldridge should come to know her.


Thank you so much for reading,

Alexandria Allison


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