Wednesday January 20, 1982

 Fog, but warm fog. Kissed [Ally] goodbye at 7:30 after boiled eggs and toast. I so wanted to stay at home in bed.

Rail strike. The buses are full of ladies in fur coats and businessmen in sheepskin jackets and deer stalker hats, who usually journey by train. I resent imposters. Really, the people who always travel by train should refuse to work when the railwaymen strike.

Buckton: moody.

Papers dull. Full of articles about rape. The Prince and Princess of Wales have been granted joint armorial bearings incorporating the prince's shield and Garter buckle and the Spencer shells - cockleshells, I think. The press seems to be letting them 'rest in peace' since the Buckingham Palace conference asking Fleet Street to 'lay off'. I haven't seen a photo of Diana in the papers since. Poor Lord Spencer is having to sell paintings from Althorp to pay the death duties of the late earl, who died seven years ago.

Steve Burnip has genealogical contacts in Leeds and on my behalf has made enquiries about the Bramley parish registers and things look good. Edward III here we come!

Billy, God bless him, is 42 to-day. _______________. 

It took two hours to get home from Leeds thanks to Ray Buckton's ridiculous moodiness. Had spaghetti and chips, of all things. We are [illegible] on the lines of Coronation Street.

Read 'Key to Rebecca' and sat in bed reading it until the end, at 12:30.

-=-