Sunday March 17, 1974

3rd in Lent. St Patrick's Day. Out of bed at 12.30 - which is really 11.30 because we altered the clocks at 2am. Truly pathetic. Why should we always be messing about with the precious time I don't know. It seems so wasteful. I've been robbed of an hour.

Nothing much happens today - only the horrid political situation. Mr Heath and Uncle Jeremy all planning to destroy old Wilson tomorrow, and the tv people are getting excited about the possibilities of a constitutional 'nasty'. All the news bulletins are saying the same thing. What will the Queen do with Mr Wilson? Will she send for all the party leaders and let them fight it out at the palace? Quite tiresome really. Anyway, Her Majesty is far away from Buckingham Palace at this moment in time. Indonesia actually. No doubt she'll have to fly back from the clammy temperatures of wherever she is to pat little Harold on the head and say: 'Now then, what's all this then?'


Billy Don't be a Hero by Paper Lace.

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