Spot the machine.

A Victorian clerk's diary Warm-up

1 Arrived home tired and worried. Mr. Putley, a painter and decorator, who had sent in a card, said he could not match the colour on the stairs, as it contained Indian carmine. He said he spent half-a-day calling at warehouses to see if he could get it. He suggested he should entirely repaint the stairs. It would cost very little more; if he tried to match it, he could only make a bad job of it. It would be more satisfactory to him and to us to have the work done properly. I consented, but felt I had been talked over. Planted some mustard-and-cress and radishes, and went to bed at nine. 2 It occurs to me, on reflection, that a man in my position must learn to hold his ground with tradesmen, for they are quick to sense hesitation and quicker still to profit by it. Firmness, courtesy, and a clear notion of what one is willing to pay: these are the qualities that carry the day. I shall remember it the next time, and I flatter myself I shall be the better for the lesson.

The real diarist consents, admits he has been talked over, and then plants radishes and goes to bed at nine. He extracts no lesson at all. The machine half cannot resist one: a tricolon of virtues, then a resolve to do better next time. The whole joke of this book is that Pooter never learns anything.