Give Denise a ring to see how the travel business is going. She says that bookings for next year are going quite well and that we should decide whether we're going as soon as possible.
If you think that this diary has been getting boring lately just hang on a minute because I have a nice surprise for you all. I have decided that on Mondays I'll write a poem or ode [call it what you will] dealing with some event currently taking place. How's that for excitement? Today's ode is as follows:
Lines on the Earthquake in Turkey
Poor Turkey, what a damned shame,
your land has crumbled in all but name,
Your people starve, and your women weep,
But Michael Rhodes hasn't lost any sleep.
Will the Turkish people accept my apologies for the tasteless filth I've just had the audacity to churn out? I don't really mean it.
Home for tea and await the arrival of Miss Mather, who spoke to me on the telephone this morning. She's going [horse] riding on Sunday and wants to know if I want to accompany her. I say like Hell I will. However, we will be going to Thornton-le-Dale after Miss Carol Smith's 'do' at Skipton. No doubt we'll be going straight to work on Monday. Miserable existence really. Sometimes I don't know why the Hell I bother with this journal. Perhaps I should extend my poetic scribblings to Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. That's how Keats started.
Tony rings at 8 to arrange a booze-up for tomorrow night. He says Stuart has got the Paris job. Great eh? No more weekends in Ilkley. It'll be: 'Oh, I'm nipping over to Paris, Mum.' Smashin'.
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