Just can't be bothered to say anything normal today. Well life gets so boring doesn't it? Blimey, I don't know why the hell you've stuck with me for so long. Faithful chaps, that's what you are.
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| Lawrence: prime minister material. |
Dad has just been performing something of a pantomime in his bedroom. He was measuring himself for a new pair of trousers but the way he went about it was reminiscent of the Charge of the Light Brigade. I have always held the belief that Papa should stand for parliament or something. He'd make a first class cabinet minister or even THE prime minister. Mind you, I don't think Sue would want to travel from No 10 to Park Gate Boutique every day, and his appointment would necessitate upheaval for us all. Blimey, I could act as his press secretary and when I'm hard-up in a few years time I could nip down to Fleet Street and sell my inside story to the highest bidder. Endless possibilities. He could make me a life peer and send baby JPH to the Foreign Office where I'm sure he'd do far more work than this Crosland guy who just seems to lounge around in hospital beds day in, day out. It's all very well, but when we're a leading world power with an empire on which the sun never sets, you ought to be doing far more, Tony.
Tony B rings from Leicester or Lincoln to say he's going to Tramp's tonight but won't be scoring in the Silver Jubilee Lechery competition.
I celebrate one week of freedom today. Funny isn't it? After seeing somebody for months on end and then suddenly breaking off is a wrench - even for the one who terminates the contract. So final and straight cut, and very untrue to life. I keep thinking something else will happen. Rather like when someone dies.
Take to my bed spot on midnight just as Radio Luxembourg's 12 o'clock news is screaming out it's solemn deliberations. The DJ's illiterate.
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