_. Phoned Ally this morning. She complains of a blister on her lip and thinks she now resembles something a combination of Oliver Cromwell and the Phantom of the Opera. I was in no position to tell her otherwise.
The mood at the YP not much better either. Sarah was down in the dumps following her monthly 'full moon' argument with Mr Burke, and doubly morose because of the silence and halting of communications from the mega-star rugby player John Holmes.
We are lunching with Auntie Delia at Len's on Friday. I look upon Delia Collis as something of a legend. I'm sure she would love me to play Roddy Llewellyn to her Princess Margaret.
At lunchtime I bought Lynn a birthday card. A 12p stamp saw it on its way to Burley-in-W. The poor thing is 22. Lynn, I think, was born at 2:30am, and according to Mama it snowed heavily on that wintry night in 1958. One of my first memories is of that morning, with John, peeping into the cradle next to Mum's bed, at the baby clad in pink.
Watched Michael Parkinson. He interviewed Wayne Sleep.
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