Wednesday December 8, 1976

Christmas lunch at the Yorkshire Post. Sarah, Eileen, Carol and I represented the library at this meal leaving Kathleen seething amongst her torn news cuttings. In fact she was in an abominable mood all day. Over to the Central at 1 o'clock and spend half an hour with Anthony Ronald Brotherwood, Esq. He looks completely knackered and shagged out. I leave him in the knowledge that he is going home to spend the afternoon in bed. Lucky swine.

I see in the Press that Gerald John Ward, the Berkshire landowning relative of Freda Dudley Ward, is divorcing his 31 year-old wife, Rosalind Elizabeth. It just so happens that the Prince of Wales - if gossip columns are to be believed - is a very close friend of Mrs Ward, a niece of Lord Beauchamp. Is it not a coincidence that Freda Dudley Ward, Gerald's cousin, was mistress to King Edward VIII for many years prior to his meeting with Mrs Simpson? What would the reaction be today if the Prince of Wales announced his intention to marry a woman with a husband already living? Would the events of 1936 set a precedent and would the prince be compelled to renounce his rights to the throne? I'm not too sure. Anyway, why should I dedicate a whole page of my journal to Mrs Ward? She'll undoubtedly pass into obscurity long before you, dear reader, discover this priceless masterpiece.

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Wednesday September 24, 1975

Two years ago at about this time we all drew the conclusion that our beloved Prince of Wales would make Miss Amelia Rose Clifton his princess. Rosie Clifton, however, must have different intentions, because after finishing with the prince at Balmoral she tagged herself along with old Prince Michael of Kent. This romance too proved useless because earlier this year she married the younger brother of millionaire Lord Vestey and became the Hon Mrs Mark Vestey.

The horror story circulating Fleet Street at the moment is that His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales is attached to MRS Rosalind Ward, a married mother with two children. Tut, tut. This will never do. The Duke of Windsor was all very well, but we don't want another one. The prince will be 27 in November and if he's not married soon I intend washing my hands of him.

Let's hope Prince Andrew will find the marriage market easier to deal with when it falls his lot to give the nation a Duchess of York.

John's birthday tomorrow. I think I'll buy him a record or something similar. He's the owner of far too many pullovers, shirts, socks and trousers and they're beyond my price-range at the moment.


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Tuesday February 4, 1975

Busy day again. Kathleen goes home at lunch with 'flu. Never seen Kate ill before. See in the Sunday People that another young lady is denying a romantic relationship with the Prince of Wales. The difference this time is that she's married. Yes, Mrs Rosalind Ward, the wife of a young millionaire landowner. Like Edward VIII and Mrs Freda Dudley Ward in the early '30s. Can't really say I believe it, but you never can tell.

Wait for ages in the cold for a bus home and meet Marita on Wellington Street. We come home on the 35 together. Hear all about the love, passion and ecstasy of Sheffield at the weekend. Her 20th birthday celebrations went with a bang in more ways than one I can imagine.

See in the EP that Margaret Thatcher won todays battle for the Tory leadership, but even better news awaits me on my arrival home. Dad informs me that Edward Heath has conceded defeat and will not stand in next Tuesday's ballot! The Grocer is gone! Ted Heath is no more! Tories all over England will feel numbed by it all, other than Margaret Thatcher and myself that is. Mrs Thatcher captured my heart sometime last week when the current affairs programmes were going to town over her. An utterly charming lady, whom I'm sure the Queen would love to ask: 'Come on, Margaret. Form a government!' A weird feeling hangs over us all. As though a great cloud has moved from above, letting the sunshine through for the first time since 1965. Only the ending of a war, the death of a beloved monarch, and the freedom from prison of a man who has served 29 years for something he never did, can be likened to the resignation of the hopeless Edward Heath. To be rendered insane at the height of ones political career is tragedy indeed.

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