Saturday September 10, 1983

 Linthorpe Hotel, Middlesbrough

I am far too busy to keep a diary. I have been saying this for years but it is the case today more than ever before. I needn't tell you it isn't actually the 10th today as I write. In fact it's many wine sodden days later and the diarist, dear reader, is older, wiser, and poorer. However, September 10 cannot be ignored. It would be such a shame to allow it to pass by without a mention. A horrible wet day. Roy dropped us at Dutton Forshaw's and we went for a spin with the greasy Mr Docherty. Ally took the wheel and was masterful to the extent that the saleman was struck dumb. The starter proved to be knackered, but we never take possession of cars smoothly. Mr Foreskin insists all will be well when we take delivery of the vehicle on Tuesday or Wednesday next week. He assures us we will be driving Mandy (for it is she) until 1993 and beyond. Salesmen are such ghastly little men, eh? What am I? If you can sell beer, you can sell anything, says Roy. I would never have thought I had it in me. Ah, well.

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