Monday January 7, 1980

_. One of the 'weedier' daily newspapers reports that the Prince of Wales is entertaining Lady Amanda Knatchbull at Sandringham. More like Lady Amanda Red-Herring-Knatchbull. She is not pretty enough to be wife of the heir to the throne. Her nose too long and her teeth too pronounced, nothing hideous, but just not good enough. Lady Amanda is a close relative of HRH and I will repeat my previous statement that the couple are nothing but friends, with a 'brother and sister' affection for each other. Should Lady Amanda, or any other Knatchbull, become Prince Charles's wife I'll eat my continental quilt.

A dismal day at the YP. I did not hear from Ally, but despatched a letter in her direction.

Can I say something about Mrs Indira Gandhi? This sweet little Indian lady has seized India by the throat again, but this time she will not release her grip so easily. The papers talk about the 'tyrannical' Mrs Gandhi but I have nothing but admiration for her. She has restricted the activities of the Press and has jailed all her political opponents as any self respecting eastern prime minister would do.

Glynnie phoned. He's off at the weekend and wants to know if I can join him. It would be financial suicide.

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Sunday January 6, 1980

_. Epiphany

Breakfast with Lynn and Dave. Toast, marmalade, coffee. For some reason Lynn was in a foul mood and making Dave's morning far from tranquil. Lynn might be more pleasant on a morning if she ate something. I helped them dismantle the Christmas tree and then on we went to Pine Tops. Mum and Dad had taken down the Christmas decorations, thrown out the tree, and Mum too was a little frosty.

Lynn and Dave came for the afternoon. Paul Newman was on the telly. It's twelfth night and appropriately the BBC produced the Shakespeare play of that name. Superb. Bed at 12:30. Ally stayed the night because she's low on petrol and didn't fancy bumping into the Yorkshire Ripper.

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Saturday January 5, 1980

_. Woke up on Saturday afternoon quite disorientated. The remainder of the day fell into typical Club Street routine. Ally made lunch at about 3:30 which consisted of lashings of rabbit goulash, with red wine, which was delicious. Until 8 we played with the stereo and taped the DJs on Radio 1, Paul Gambaccini and Adrian Juste. Ally thinks I truly obsessed by the Panasonic machine. We cuddled on the couch/settee/sofa, or whatever you want to call it. Ally's mother phoned, and so did Sailor Dave. He sent her a cutlery service for Christmas which must have cost a fortune. We went on to Guiseley for 8, and after a quick change we were in the White Cross with Sue and Pete. They left us after one drink and on we went to the Yorkshire Rose, and bumped into Martyn Cole's parents. Then in the Fox and Hounds we met Lynn and Dave with the Allinsons. In fact the pub was seething with people I know. We were invited back to Burley-in-W where we stayed the night.

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Friday January 4, 1980

_. Met Jacq at 1pm at the Ostlers which has been renovated recently. Jacq has been renovated too, and looked very well. We discussed Christmas. She told me that Paul is currently playing in 'Sleeping Beauty' at the Civic Theatre, an atrocious production. I drank too much for a lunchtime session.

Later I phoned Dave L and asked if he wanted to go out and to my surprise he agreed. I phoned Ally too, but she declined due to lack of funds, but had a change of heart and came over. We joined Sue and Pete at the Fox & Hounds. We had a good evening. David always lends a cheery presence to any gathering. He drinks pils lager shandies, and the rounds of drinks were costing £2.50.   From the Fox we drifted to the Hare. No sign of Judith, but had a chat with Willie, who is as mad as ever. Saw Carole and Mick Lynch but we didn't converse. Dave left us and Ally, Sue, Pete and I went on to the 'Green Light' Indian on Manningham Lane, where we ate curry with our fingers. Back to Club Street where we consumed vast quantities of red wine. Before Susan and Peter left we discussed baby names for our future offspring and they dissolved in fits of laughter when I said that a future son of mine might well be Rupert Rhodes.

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