To market for vegetables. Nothing at the YP. The Duke of Norfolk's daughter, Lady Marsha Ryecart, has been brought to bed of a daughter. I passed on this tit bit to Frank Metcalfe on the EP newsdesk, but whether he'll use it is open to debate.
Home at 6. The bus was a sod. Ally reclining looks beautiful and chic - as if she's stepped out of a Noel Coward play. But slightly gaunt. _________.
Mummy and Daddy came in just after 7. They visited a pub near Todmorden last Tuesday with a view to buying it, but decided against it - £25,000! Hilda phoned at 7:45 to say Tony has yet to arrive home from a colliery near Selby where he's prospecting. They eventually walked in at 8:45, just as we finished the first bottle of sherry. Hilda bearing a flower arangement. We dined on tomato and celery soup, scampi and salad, then beef Catalan cooked in tomato, peppers and beer; Jamaica banana, &c. The conversation ranged from cousin Diane's career in radiography, the SDP by-election, David Steel's driving ambition, and the monarchy. Tony insists that the Queen is nothing but a useless puppet and I argued furiously. He answers everything so glibly. _________. To bring a halt to the squabbling and lighten the proceedings Ally took to the piano, and we sang 'Jesus Bids Us Shine' and other rousing hymns. All were delighted by the dinner and everything went perfectly. Ally hates taking all the credit for the repast, and looking at me said: 'All the credit is Michael's'. Totally untrue. I only ever assist. They left after 2.
-=-
No comments:
Post a Comment