Busy day. The bloody telephone didn't cease ringing all day. Nothing of interest to say, but I must say something because it's hardly proper to leave blank pages when ones diary is to consitute a major contribution to the historical, social, and literary knowledge of this, the 20th century. OK, we all agree I'm no Samuel Pepys, or John Evelyn or even 'Chips' Channon, but what do you expect from a comprehensive school educated creature who never set foot in Harrow or had Princess Marina for a godmother?
See TV and Monty Python. Nothing of vital interest. So I'll be saying goodnight to you all. I write this journal as though I'm addressing a party of OAPs at the local Darby & Joan. But it's not my fault.
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Wednesday October 9, 1985
Moorhouse Inn, Leeds Slept until 8:30 when the Schweppes delivery man woke us. Much chaos. To market after a frugal breakfast. Ally explain...
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Moorhouse Inn I have the most disgusting hangover I have perhaps ever experienced. Ally too lay whimpering beneath the quilt and refused to...
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Quinquagesima. By 4am only Judith, Kathryn and I are conscious. But when we decided to call it a day I realised with horror that my jacket a...
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