Thursday November 15, 1979

. _. Driving rain. To the dentist for my six monthly inspection. My dentist, or butcher, is an obliging bearded youth who is reeking of garlic, and who seems quite disinterested in doing anything whatsoever with the contents of my mouth. Hough, his predecessor, who has disappeared, pulled, filled and twisted anything he could get his hands on. Got a soaking going home, but smiled throughout the process.

Princess Anne's son is two years old today, and HRH isn't at Gatcombe Park to celebrate with the toddler. The princess is in Canada on a Save the Children Fund mission. Dedication for you. Leaving a child at home to go to a minor function in Ottawa.

A Margaret and Jim night. No Ally.

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Wednesday November 14, 1979

_. Snow appeared but rain soon followed to make it disappear. Two phone calls of varying importance. Ally phoned after lunch with some sombre news about her car. The repairs amount to £60 and the machine requires a further fortune spending on an exhaust and numerous other odds and ends. She says that when she went to bed on Sunday night she went into a deep sleep, failed to hear her alarm clock, and woke at 4:40pm on Monday! She does not appreciate my concern and says I am overwrought. The poor girl is now financially ruined and things look very bleak.

The next phone call came this evening and was from Dave L. He wants a copy of an old Sunday Observer magazine. I explained the chances of me laying hands on a copy are slim. He chatted about MM and Marita and concluded somewhat teasingly that he has news which he cannot possibly repeat.
'Is it about them getting married'? I enquired. 'Yes', he replied: 'Who told you'? I laughed and answered: 'You did of course, just now.' I'd tricked it out of him. Oh, we did laugh. How cunning of me. The wedding, he says, is to take place on December 8, in Rawdon.

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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.

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Monday November 12, 1979

_. Can I talk about Senator Edward Kennedy and then Mrs Margaret Thatcher? The senator is most certainly the next president of the United States, but Mother doesn't seem to think so. I am of the opinion that anyone with the surname Kennedy can do nothing but succeed in American politics. Mother says that the fact that Teddy murdered his girlfriend in 1969 rules him out of the race. As we all know, Americans like their presidents to be bent, crooked and twisted. My chauffeur, Jim, says that the sitting president commands tremendous power over his party and that it would be unprecedented for the Democrats to discard the president and select some other candidate. However, the word is that Carter now is more unpopular than Nixon was in his final days after Watergate, and that Carter's credibility is nil. We shall see.

My next subject is our dearly beloved prime minister. Isn't she doing well? Tonight she addressed the Lord Mayor of London's banquet and gave a performance almost Churchillian in its stature. Listening to her tonight made me so aware that at last we have a leader. We actually have someone of stature at the helm. Harold Macmillan has likened Thatcher to Queen Elizabeth I.

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