Wednesday September 3, 1980

_. Hot day. Carol J says we are having an Indian Summer. Surely, we are still in the normal summer? Surely, an Indian summer implies a warm spell in late autumn? I wasn't raised on the Pears Encyclopaedia for nothing, you know.

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.

-=-

Tuesday September 2, 1980

_. YP: Carol stayed away with her heavy cold leaving only Kathleen and I. Busy all day.

Spitfire: end of an era

I conversed with Ally, only briefly, this afternoon. She is bored without Catherine Brook in the office. She's holidaying in Menorca. She has discovered the joys of P.G. Wodehouse, and cannot put him down. The Triumph Spitfire may be going on Wednesday. The end of an era, and all that.

Home at 6 to a salad before setting about the jungle at the rear of the house with the lawn mower.

In the news: Poland could be invaded by Russia any day now. Roddy Llewellyn is reported to be in Scotland visiting [Princess] Margaret at Colin Tennant's place. The pound is up against the dollar. Another heart transplant patient has bit the dust. The delegates at the TUC conference in Brighton demand a red revolution. Yootha Joyce, a dreadful peroxide blonde actress, has died from alcoholic poisoning. The Prince of Wales, we are told, spends £300 on his suits.

Tommy Cooper was on TV tonight. Saw Nureyev dancing 'Aureole' with the Royal Danish Ballet - impressive. Bed at 11:30. Felt like reading but didn't know what.

-=-

Monday September 1, 1980

_. Something of a rotten day, really. Carol staggered in to work showing all the signs of pneumonia, and sat around sneezing, wheezing and dribbling until lunchtime and then left leaving me on my own. Kathleen, of course, never works Mondays.

Saw in the the death notices of Saturday's Daily Telegraph that Naomi's Dad died on August 28. The Rev Benjamin Downing was something of a character. I remember seeing him buried in the foliage on Hawksworth Lane digging, on all fours, for dandelions for his pet rabbit's evening meal. Naomi was spotted only this weekend making merry in the White Cross.

Susan and Peter came to dinner this evening [roast pork]. She told me 'the lads' have missed me since I haven't been out with them since the wedding. They were all at the Square and Compass on Saturday. After dinner we watched 'Marathon Man' a 1976 Dustin Hoffman film in which Laurence Olivier plays a Nazi war criminal. Mum seethed over her knitting every time anybody said 'fuck'. I puzzle over why such adulation is sprayed over Sir Larry, a vastly over-rated and declining actor. His Hamlet may have been spot on, but that was 1947. Can he live off this forever?

Dad was called to an incident this afternoon where a man was burned to death whilst carrying out repairs on his car. Ugh.

To bed at 12.

-=-

Sunday August 31, 1980

_. 13th Sunday after Trinity

My grandmother, Ruth Ellen Upton would have been eighty today. She married Albert Rhodes in 1922, bore him seven living children, and died, exhausted, in June, 1959.

Said goodbye to Ally at 10:30 and returned home. Met David on the lane and he joined us for breakfast. Mum and Dad went off to a 60th birthday party at Uppermill, and I walked to Burley-in-W which took about an hour. Lynn gave me steak and chips, and afterwards I helped Dave lay a few paving stones, and then joined Lynn in a deckchair [not the same one]. Later they went on to Mr & Mrs Baker's residence at Pool, and dropped me at my deserted home.

Sat with a mug of soup watching TV. A play about Tutankhamun's curse, which was interesting. Didn't the Earl of Carnarvon's daughter, Lady Evelyn Beauchamp die very recently? Bed at 12:30. Mum and Dad came in at 1:30 and Tony woke me.

-=-