Wednesday February 3, 1982

 Tired. Got up, looked in the mirror and gasped. I'm growing old. I'm over 12 stone and have obviously been letting things get out of hand. It's Ally I feel so sorry for. She married an adonis and after only six months she's got Cyril Smith, MP. This wouldn't be so bad if he was a Tory, but ... Liberal! I am going to have to make adjustments to my diet and bring a speedy halt to the spread. My hair is hanging about my ears. It was once one of my finest features, but now it's a dead, rabid cat. Poor, poor Ally. I shall have to swim and forgo luncheon, and take long, brisk walks. This door to door bus service hasn't helped.

YP busy, but pleasant. No girls. See in the society betrothals that Francis Dymoke, heir to the Queen's Champion and standard bearer at the Coronation, is engaged to a Gloucestershire lass. The Queen's Champion. Now that's the sort of job I'd like. No industrial disputes, monotonous slaving, or nine to five hours. His role only comes into being at the coronation. He hasn't worked since 1953. I suppose that I will never live to see an old style coronation. A future Labour/SDP/Plaid Cymru Alliance will no doubt scrap the ancient panoply and replace the ceremony with a disgusting inauguration. I cannot see a King's Champion having much of a role in the Space Age 21st century.

Home to Ally and fish at 5. [I made an early exit again from the office with thanks to ASLEF]. 

We watched a film - 'Halloween'. Ally couldn't take it, and took to her bed but I was gripped until 12:15. Too late really.

-=-