Monday December 4, 1978

This afternoon the National Union of Journalists voted to strike, and according to John MacMurray it may mean a virtual shut~down (of the Yorkshire Post) until the New Year. The editors will not last long working alone. A sad day indeed. However, we in the library will carry on undaunted.

Sarah is off with a cold which is no surprise because she looked washed out all last week. No personal phone calls today - but I did send a quick note to Christine on the prospect of our seeing each other on Thursday.

Carol J saw Jacq on Saturday night at the Regent in Chapel Allerton. ___________________.


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Tuesday November 28, 1978

Fog, ice and murky weather generally. Could really do with a few months off work. It seems like a lifetime ago since I had any holiday. If the International Commission for Human Rights got to hear about my working conditions they'd all go collectively grey. I'd make a good Russian Jew.

It is indeed a sad week. On Friday the Times newspaper disappears for an unspecified period of time. God knows just how I will cope without it. It's the only decent national newspaper and the workers are doing their utmost to destroy it. Send in the tanks, that's what I say. Flatten bloody Fleet Street and hang the National Graphical Association rebels by the ankles from which ever newspaper building is the highest. Swines. I'm going now. I have nothing sensible to say and so I might as well just go to bed.

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Tuesday August 30, 1977

Our managing director is a lunatic. Just watching him sitting behind his desk makes one wonder how he ever rose to such a position. I am sure that the fact that Mr Linacre is the holder of the Distinguished Flying Cross has a lot to do with it. The DFC is essential for newspaper management.

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Tuesday March 11, 1975

It's even more noisy in the bloody office today. Kathleen had headphones on all day.

Read an interesting article in the recent News of the World re Lord Snowdon and Lady Jacqueline Rufus Isaacs. It says that Lady Jackie, the daughter of Lord Reading, was "very much in love" with Lord Snowdon, and that the affair had started in 1969 when the couple sat at the same table in a West End club. Evidently, his Lordship visited Lady Jackie's flat two or three times a week under the pretext of calling on her brother, Viscount Erleigh,and they managed to see each other frequently in 1970 without more than a handful of people knowing. When the story was grabbed by the Press in 1971 the affair had to cease. It says Lord Snowdon never visited the Reading family home again, and Princess Margaret ignores Lady Jackie when they occasionally meet at parties.

The beloved Prime Minister is 59 years old today. He celebrates at Dublin Castle where the EEC talks are going on, and never again will I say nasty things about him because he's done so much for the Queen's pay rises and the Civil List. He's a decent old sport really, and I don't suppose it's his fault that he was born with all these confused ideas about politics. Someone really should discover an antedote for socialism, because when that day comes Harold Wilson will require a sizeable injection.

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Monday February 24, 1975

More bloody fog all day. Creep to the YP with Jim in the car, bumper to bumper all the way. See in the papers that Uncle Harold is to make a statement in the Commons today about the 'Royal shares' leakage. On the 6 o'clock news tonight Harold says the reports in the Morning Star are true, and Scotland Yard are looking into the whole affair. Some filthy swine has obviously waited until the Civil List is about to be debated before dropping this bombshell. Many MPs want to know how we can possibly justify giving £450,000 to the Civil List when private royal finance interests are unknown and shrouded in privacy. The poor Queen can't be enjoying her Mexican visit at all.

Home at 5.15. Lynn is in bed with funny pains in her stomach. Mum says she's had some idea that something's been wrong for about 10 days, and appendix cannot be ruled out. She doesn't look too good. I'll be glad when the doctor has seen her in the morning.

Old Mrs Thing across the road was found dead in bed last night. I hate people dying without letting people know - most inconsiderate, and it's always such a messy business what with the police and the Coroner, &c, &c. I delivered her morning paper many years ago, but otherwise I never came into contact with her.

John discovered this evening that Naomi's papa is a vicar! Yes, the Rev A.B. Downing is listed in the telephone directory as living at Naomi's address, so it must be the case. Please remind me to watch my language when I meet her again.

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Thursday November 15, 1973

With the wedding of the year over, what do we have left to live for? No coal. No electricity. No gas. No heating. No June. No fuel. No cars. No turkeys. No meat. No bread. No unmarried princesses, and sexy with it. No oil. No lights. No fairies. No 18th century mahogany chamber pot covers (£75 from any mahogany chamber pot stockist). No bacon, sausages, or canned tomatoes. No electric tooth brushes, etc. Britain will come to a grinding halt by next week. And what's more, statistics just out show that by 1984 Britain will be polluted beneath a blanket of 800m back dated copies of 'The Guardian'. The roads, fields, sewers, and woodland areas of rural Britain will be buried beneath an 18ft rotting heap of Guardians - not including the colour supplements. The thought is quite nauseating really. But Anne and Mark won't be bothered. Nobody reads the Guardian in the Caribbean...

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