I am currently in talks to gain access to another of May Elizabeth Trump's diaries. I have come to believe that this one is a very early edition that dates back to when May first left the orphanage at the age of just sixteen. Current negotiations have proved to be erratic and problematic at best. Even though I have a few doubts to the authenticity of this manuscript, I am endeavouring to secure at least a viewing of the diary in question.


To give an example of the problems I am currently facing, I visited the alleged holder of the manuscript recently. He wouldn't even let me through the front door until after I had purchased four cans of a triple strength cider called 'Applerot' and passed them to him through a barely open door. Once I had gained access to the property, I was appalled at the gentleman's current living conditions; I'm certain that there were things alive in there that archaeologists had previously declared as extinct. The man himself wore a string vest, with twice as many holes in it than the original design provided, over his bulging, bare torso. He smelt as if he had been using a dead cat as a roll on deodorant and his hair was so greasy that I would advise against getting too close to him with a naked flame. Nevertheless I refrained from prejudging this man and found a partially clean chair to sit on. I watched in astonishment as he gurgled down an entire can of Applerot, without even a breath between the crack of the ring-pull to when the can was finally crushed by his thick, chubby fingers.

“Right then, let’s talk dosh”. The man said before belching like a waterlogged fog horn.

“Yes I was wanting to ask you about that,” I replied while fighting the urge to scratch; I swear that something bit me at that moment. “I was told you were looking for a squillion pounds and I was wondering if you realised that there was no such word as a squillion?”

“Well I ain’t talking words now am I. Money ain’t counted in words is it, what I’m talking about is numbers”.

“I appreciate that, I really do but there is no such number as a squillion either I’m afraid”. ( I later discovered the word Squillion in The Oxford Dictionary, apparently it’s a very large indefinite number).

“Well that’s what I want for it, take it or leave it,” he said as he picked up a second can of cider.

“Can I at least see this diary you claim to have in your possession?”

“I’ll dig it out when the there’s a pile cash on this table”. He pointed to the big pile of rubbish in the middle of the room; I hadn’t even realised there was a table underneath it.

“I’m sorry but I refuse to part with any money until I’ve seen exactly what it is I’m buying”.

“Well that’s your problem mate not mine. Thanks for the booze and you can see yourself out”.


I acknowledge that it was a difficult set back but I will not falter in my quest to secure what could be an invaluable insight into the mind of the young May Elizabeth Trump.