Sunshine and breezes. Up with the larks. Give Ally a boiled egg. She has taken a shine to Francis (Wilson), the BBC Breakfast TV weather forecaster. He looks very much like Andy Graham. I went out to dig furiously in the garden uprooting gigantic dandelions and deep-rooted buttercups. It is my first foray into the garden this year. The mint is high, and once the tulips have gone the display will be far from Chelsea Flower Show standard. I suppose we need a few good hardy annuals. Then, basking in the morning sun I set about cleaning the windows and dispose of some of Steve O'Connor's debris. Then, with sweat on my brow, I threw everything into the washing machine and hung everything out of the washing line. Miss Whincup, over the road, comes out into her garden from time to time and gives me a smile. The lunchtime news: The Alliance are convinced that they'll beat Labour. Baked bread and sat with a coffee watching the shirts billowing on the line. This diary has gone, in the space of five years, from the journal of a debauched bachelor to that of a sedate, working 'house husband'. It must be terribly dull for you all. Never mind, with a bit of luck the years end will see me a licensee in a thriving tavern and then I'll have a few tales to tell, eh? We have had a postcard from Auntie Mabel in Llandudno. We haven't seen her since February, and so we must go soon to give her our joyous news. She'll be knitting furiously for six months. Ally came in looking well and alive and we sat in the peace of a Lidget Green evening eating a chicken broth with dumplings. I felt shagged out and we went upstairs and slept for an hour. Sue phoned. Are we going to Chippy's orgy on Saturday? No, Winchester calls. She says that Mrs Sumpton called the other day to thank her for the floral tributes for John. We say nothing about our news of course and say we'll go over on Thursday. Watched 'Minder' and went to bed after seeing the Waleses at the premiere of 'Octopussy'.
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