Wednesday January 8, 1975

Wake up at 11.00am to find the house void of human life, other than me that is. Make myself a coffee and take the necessary medication which is supposed to do something for my cold. Give Kathleen a ring and tell her of the recent developments. She isn't particularly bothered about me being absent, and wishes me a speedy recovery.

Sit in bed reading the morning paper. I can hardly believe that the Stansted Airport trick pulled off without any hitches. The demented Arab will be feeling such a fool this morning. Climb out of bed and devour a bowl of soup. Deposit myself in front of the television until tea time, and repeat the pattern after devouring the meal. Bed at about 11 o'clock.

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Tuesday January 7, 1975

Wake at about 8.30 feeling slightly better, but do not intend going back to the office until it has cleared up entirely. Mum, in her infinite wisdom, says that the doctor really ought to visit me instead of vice versa, but on ringing she discovers that he's far too bogged down with other cases to find the time for me.

I lay in bed with the radio banging away in my left ear 'ole until lunch. In the midst of Johnny Walker's show one of the news features holds a story on the horror of horrors, Anthony Wedgwood Benn. I was relieved to hear a top authority on politics say that Mr Benn is far too rebellious ever to become Prime Minister. A sad day it would be indeed if it dawned with Lord Stansgate behind the door in no. 10 Downing Street. Even fat, little Harold Wilson is better than him one hundred fold.

See in the morning paper that little Lady Jane Wellesley is now escorting James Balfour, the estranged husband of Princess Elizabeth of Yugoslavia. Over in France the Paris newspapers still carry futile, impossible stories about her and the Prince of Wales. There is no doubt in my mind that His Royal Highness gave her the push months ago - and rightly so. Never did like the idea of her being Queen Jane. (Correction: I have just called the husband of Princess Elizabeth of Yugoslavia James Balfour. In fact he's Neil Balfour, and I apologise deeply to all the relatives of the 20th century Prime Minister).

Later: a plane hijacked at Heathrow by a mad Arab is, at this moment, preparing to fly to Stansted Airport which has been disguised to look like a 'typical French airport'. The demented Arab wants to go to Paris, but Mr Giscard d'Estaing won't let the plane enter France. How they are going to make Stansted look like France I do not know.No doubt they'll get a crowd of men in berets, bicylces, and festoon them with strings of onions, playing old Maurice Chevalier records over the loud speakers. We shall see.

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