From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 165)

I have noticed that the upcoming generation seem to be taking to eating between meals. I predict this will be the downfall of society. 

‘Snacks’ are generally something that I give Jack. I also refer to them as treats, or, I don’t refer to them at all. Even a dog shouldn’t eat between meals, but sometimes those brown eyes of his are simply too sorrowful, and I become convinced that Griffin has forgotten to feed him. This is, of course, never the case. 

When it comes to myself, while at home, I prefer the routine of breakfast, luncheon and dinner, or supper if one is dining lightly. Even I, these days, must be careful to keep my physique in its prime. A waistcoat button stretched to its limit, or a pinching trouser waist will send me into a week of lighter meals. But generally, I stick to regular mealtimes. 

At house parties’ things are a little different. They include a ‘teatime’ of cakes and tiny sandwiches that would not satisfy a mouse (this meal, I believe, was invented for ladies who were bored in the afternoon). Then, after dinner, there’s often a supper for those who have stayed up late. This is to remind guests that the evening really is over, and also to prove the largesse of the host. Those who’ve partaken lightly of dinner, to prove their control, load up like pigs at a trough now that the most important (and prettiest) ladies have retired. After a ball, there’s always a breakfast at 4am to signal the end of the evening and sober up the guests enough to get them to their carriages or to their chambers. 

Thus, it seems to me, in the ordinary way of things, the upper classes have always had more than enough food on offer. Too much, if one consults the tailors of the middle aged men who rule the great houses and the banks. Control and self-regulation must be a gentleman’s watchwords, as they have been mine, if he is not to turn into a porcine caricature of himself by forty. 

Even the other classes have regular mealtimes that they hold dear, be it dinner or tea. Of course, the lower classes are rising, and the upper classes are in retreat. Which, really, is how it should be if we are ever to have a more egalitarian world. I say this with the ease of a gentleman who was born rich and who has always made sound investments (the irony is not lost on me). 

But the disruption of strikes and wars has led to people grabbing food when they can. I’ve even heard stories of quite senior people consuming a luncheon at their work desks. Surely all this can achieve is indigestion and stained paperwork? Splitting one’s concentration is never wise. Besides, food is one of the joys of life and should be savoured. 

Although, in some ways, I suppose I do understand this descent into ‘snacking’. Always, when I was in the field, I’d eat when I could. If the ‘field’ happened to be a country house, there was little to alarm one other than a straining waistcoat, but if the ‘field’ was actually a field, it was quite different. When tramping through the wild on reconnaissance, or when evading others, or even pursuing a target, it’s important to keep up one’s strength. You can never quite be sure when you’ll next be able to eat again, despite what supplies you have (and you may have to abandon them at a moment’s notice). It’s only at times such that these that I ‘snack’.  

My reflections, thus, lead me to the thought that the everyday working lives of our population are moving towards a similar chaos and confusion that is present during a mission. Lines that had been drawn in the sand, such as when a man’s working day begins and ends, are slipping. I don’t think this is good. An army marches on its stomach, and a civilisation reigns through organisation and order. When we eat is one of the foundations of our nation, and when we work is a critical outline of our days. Without a necessary distinction between the two, all is in disorder. 

But then, those close to me only laugh at my dire predictions of descending chaos. They point out that I myself have never lived my life constrained by rules, or even vaguely coloured within the lines. But I’m Fitzroy! I don’t believe there could ever be a society of Fitzroy’s. It makes me shudder at the mere thought. I’m proud of who, and what, I am but I’m quite certain the world only needs one of me. Although, perhaps, the ladies might argue differently.