The morning cock did thrice make salutation to the morn. We crept around like venomous things to avoid arousing Mama and Papa from their slumbers. A letter (nay, application form) comes from Chef & Brewer (Webster's really) and we laugh at the great wad of questions. We are applying to manage a pub and not for the director generalship of the CIA. They want recent photographs of us.
YP was tolerable because I have a feeling I am not long for that place.
Mum and Dad went off to Lynn's. She's having new carpets fitted in the attic. It all sounds very affluent. David Baker is Guiseley's answer to King Louis XIV.
Ally and I had fish finger sandwiches and watched a programme on the BBC about the Castle of Mey. Who will get this pile after HM (the Queen Mother) passes into the bossom of the Lord? Perhaps one of Margaret's lot, or Princess Anne. Caithness is a suitably remote spot for Mark Phillips's incarceration.
We contemplated going to bed but were distracted. The Shirley Conran novel has given Ally ideas I'm sure.
Mum and Dad returned after 10. The Bakers carpets are oatmeal.
We are told that we will have no water next week. We'll all look like urchins. And speaking of urchins Michael Fagan has been released from his asylum imprisonment after only six weeks. Our poor Sovereign Lady.
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