Sunday, 15th January 1837

The question of my breakfast has arisen again.

Back in England before embarking for the colony my breakfast was being cooked by Mary-Jane Murray, now Mrs Whittle, an artist of such refinement and delicacy that I believed her to be fairly compared with Mozart, Rubens, Titian and van Dyke when she wields a skillet. But after a ridiculous misunderstanding on Mrs Hindmarsh's part Mrs Whittle is no longer my cook and I am left with only my steward Adams as a domestic.

Whilst on board the Buffalo (and even now when we are still living on board waiting for the marines to build a suitable Vice Regal Lodging) Adams in his own doddering and rather oddly smelling way was, if not perfectly suitable, then at least something close to adequate.

However, it is clear that, while in future Adams might make a fist of being my valet, his idea of cooking would be totally unsuitable, consisting, as it does, largely of thick slabs of charcoal he refers to as "toast",

I had hoped to lure Mrs Whittle back to my employ, but my blandishments seem to have been inadequate. Some weak excuse about being with child was offered, but what is that compared to my breakfast?

I was intending to go from settler's hut to settler's hut, asking the wives of the labouring classes to poach me an egg, devil me a kidney or fry me a sausage. Mrs Hindmarsh made the somewhat unnecessary remark that perhaps I should also take a glass slipper.

Once I had selected the ten best cooks, I envisaged a series of tests and challenges for those I chose, eliminating them one by one until after some weeks only one - my breakfast cook -  would remain.

Sadly, my plan came to naught when Mrs Hindmarsh announced that she had already chosen a cook for me: Widow Harvey, a slatternly lump with three or four decent teeth in her head, arms the size of hams and a bosom like two spaniels trapped in a flour bag.

Widow Harvey has cooked me a breakfast as a sort of audition and I was able to gauge the extent of her culinary prowess.

It seems that Widow Harvey is under the impression that if you take the cheapest and meanest of ingredients and apply enough heat to them for long enough then something palatable will result. If said palatable item fails to manifest itself the Harvey Cooking Method dictates applying more heat at a higher temperature. It appears that the good Widow's maxim is "the more charred bits, the more flavour." so should be preparing the tastiest meals in the colony. So much for widow's maxims. The woman is some sort of gastronomic alchemist, trying to create gold out of dung and with similar success.

She cooked me something she called "Cornish Hash" which had, I think, an onion sliced, a potato mashed and a raw egg along with some blackened bacon, a few anchovies and (I have an awful feeling) the dread sauerkraut mixed in with it. "For flavour", she said. Slabs of this vile concoction were fried in rancid Beef Dripping until burnt, then served on a plank of stale bread and liberally doused in a sauce made, I think from vinegar and I know not what else, although generous amounts of pepper were certainly involved.

Cornish Hash - dear God, of this is the sort of food they have in Cornwall, no wonder the Cornish keep leaving for the colonies.

And this, I learn, is what my breakfast will be like for at least another year - Widow Harvey has been engaged by Mrs Hindmarsh for a twelve month.

Widow Harvey... pshaw! I am prepared to wager several pounds that Mr Harvey is not dead, but simply saw a chance to escape his wife's cooking and counterfeited his own demise.

And meanwhile, while Mr Harvey is off living the life of Kings I have hash to look forward to - it seems that the good Widow has a compete range of Hashes for each county in England, Scotland and Wales. Her parting shot was a cheerful cry of "Since you enjoyed Cornish Hash so much, if I can lay my hands on some blood sausage, next time I'll cook you Aberdeen Bubble and Squeak!"

I fear I might be bubbling and squeaking for some time after when she cooks this. Clearly some higher power has intended my life to be a hollow mockery.

And as if I did not have problems enough, Gouger pointed out to me this week that the protection of law abiding citizens within the Colony rested entirely upon the inebriated shoulders of the Royal Marines. Since these stalwarts and guardians are attached to The Buffalo it is inevitable that the Marines and what little protection  they offer will disappear over the horizon when the ship sails.

It is true that I could, as Gouger suggested, institute a Police Force, but good God above, where am I to find a policeman? It is obvious that I need someone of good and respectable character, with a forceful personality, sober, industrious and beyond temptation. People such as this are thin on the ground here in the Colony and those few that do exist can earn much higher wages that the miserable 100 pound I can afford to offer just by getting out of bed and turning up. The problem is this in a nutshell: the people I need I can't afford. The people I can afford are certainly not who I need.