I Am a Little Jealous, August 1770

I am bored with my own company and this morning I found myself saying 'pop goes the weasel' to the walls of our apartment in Getreidegasse 9 - I wish I were in Italy. It is raining all over Salzburg and Mama says the living is becoming more expensive every day. Soon enough, we will have to manage on what Papa earns each month - there are NO more jewelled toothpicks, NO more gold snuffboxes that we can sell.
Papa and Wolfie have escaped the heat of Rome – or Milan - to stay at a country house in Bologna, which is owned by a Count BOLONYETTI. They eat ripe peaches, figs and melons, which look like small, Chinese lanterns…. and Wolfie is becoming fat. The bed linen is finer than a nobleman's shirt – and I wonder why my dear Papa doesn't make one for Wolfie by cutting up his sheet.
My brother has had to remove the silk thread from around his diamond ring because his fingers have grown so plump and his singing voice has gone. Poof! Papa says it is neither high nor low, nor good for even five small notes! Mine is clear as a bell. I sing my own songs and have sent the latest one to Wolfie - the others remain in my bottom drawer, waiting for someone to discover that I CAN COMPOSE! I might as well ride on a donkey... N.