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Monday February 14, 1977

Valentine's Day again. Blimey, it comes round quickly doesn't it? Why it only seems like yesterday since that special delivery van from the Post Office brought 48 million Valentine's Day greeting cards to my door along with bunches of floral tributes and various other sundry gifts. And what did I get this year? Bugger all. Yes, not a sausage. Who would have ever thought that the day would dawn when Michael Rhodes could climb out of bed on Valentine's morn to discover no mail whatsoever? I wouldn't have. Nevertheless, life must go on.

Emerge from my slimy den at 1 o'clock. Pathetic isn't it? The BBC doesn't mention anything about the plight of the foreign secretary until 2pm. He's in a critical condition and it doesn't look as though he's going to get his money's worth from any Valentine's greetings he's despatched.

Maria and baby come up at 2.30 and stay to tea. John coming here straight from work with Mama. The baby is really incredible these days, smiling at everyone. It's hilarious to hear him laugh when he's 'roughed up' a bit. Dad spends all afternoon just bouncing him about.

Sir Robin Day.
Tony rings. See Robin Day on 'Panorama' make mincemeat of Joe Haines, former press secretary to Sir Harold Wilson. It's obvious to one and all that Mr Haines is a bloody liar. Dad goes hairless about these so-called political animals who cash in by writing books when the ink on their resignation letters is still wet. Can't blame them really, though some of the things they come out with is quite preposterous. Watch 'Up Pompei' with Frankie Howerd. Saw the film with Dave Lawson five or six years ago. That reminds me, if I don't write to David this week I'll be unfit to call myself a friend of his because I've made no contact at all since the beginning of January. Bloody disgraceful, eh? Bed at 11.30.