Speaking of Carol [and who isn't these days?] I was amazed to see her on the omnibus this morning heading into work. Disappearing with a running cold as she did on Monday I had given up hope of seeing her until at least next week. The rush of elation which shook my bronzed frame as she emerged up the stairs to the top deck can only be compared to the emotions felt by Stanley on meeting Dr Livingstone.
Industrious day at the YP. I wrote to Ally, and spoke to her on the phone. Derek Jenkins says she should go have an allergy test because she's been sneezing throughout the day. The girl must be allergic to early Indian summers. The man at the Citroen garage insists she buys the turquoise Citroen Dyan. So, it's bye bye Spitty.
Home at 5:30 to pizza pie. The 'Get Michael Married' vendetta continues its disgraceful course. I fully expect Papa to start cultivating geraniums, because he knows how much I despise them. [I sneeze at the very sight of those furry, dust-clinging leaves]. He's having a key cut to lock me out of my bedroom, and is planning to hang a large portrait of Clive Jenkins [a revolting Welsh trade unionist] over the mantlepiece. It has pushed Ally in the opposite direction. She is frightened and upset that people expect us to marry. It's too convenient, thinks she. One thing's for sure, I won't ask Chippy to be my best man.
To bed at 11:50.
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