Tuesday November 13, 1979

_. Tomorrow is the birthday of the Prince of Wales. His thirty first. He is to attend a concert by Shirley Bassey at Wembley, but no delightful deb is included in his party. Whatever the gossip columnists might say he isn't taking Sabrina, Davina, Rowena or Mavis. The poor man must be sick to death of the constant badgering and speculation. Blimey, he is only 31, and yet the Press seems to have given up hope of ever seeing 'action man' take a bride. Charles's cousin, Prince Michael of Kent, was 36, my Uncle Peter was 35, and Sir Cecil Beaton remains single at 70. So, all is not lost.

Lynn and Dave came to dinner tonight. Afterwards I was very rude and when we all retired to the sitting room I buried my head behind 'The Times' which appeared today for the first time in almost a year. Thank God it's back. Sue took to her bed at 11 but Pete stayed until 12:15, and we watched a dreadful film about an air crash. Bed with Hitler at 12:30.

-=-