As I write this, I am crippled with fatigue. Ms. Myrtleberry roused me at an ungodly hour this morning with a message from father that I was to commence my apprenticeship at his railway offices. The news came as a complete shock, and I was not afforded much time to digest it; I was scarcely able to affix my periwig before being whisked into our private carriage!
Father's railway offices lie at the eastern end of Woogston Road, in a squalid section of the city known as Tuttle Village. The inhabitants of this area are as squalid as its streets and, heedful that gentlemen are in my father's employ, they cluster about the entryways, begging for scraps and shiny pennies. The interior of the offices are no more appealing: The workers are all in a bustle and terribly rude for it, and the Chinamen who construct the rail lines seem to be always darting underfoot, creating an air of horrid nuisance.
I shall not recount the activities of the day itself, for to relive them would simply be too exhausting. Suffice it to say that I trifled away most of my time cooped up in father's personal office, regretful at not having had the foresight to bring along my marbles for amusement. My only spot of pleasure came in leaving the offices, when I witnessed the delight that two Chinamen seemed to take in my appearance. I feel that seeing a gentleman dressed in the most current fashion was a great source of inspiration for them. Perhaps they shall henceforth be more motivated in their work, knowing that their wages may one day buy them a waistcoat or frock not unlike my own.
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