1st Sunday after Epiphany. When we arrived home last night Mum and I squabbled about something but this morning all was forgotten in the haze. She can be very irate at times. I'd barely finished breakfast when Ernest came round to use the telephone. This simple, quite small action by our venerable old neighbour sparked off something quite Bacchanalian. Yes, nothing less than an orgy to make the orgies of the Emperor Caligula look like one of Andy Pandy's tea parties. I was ordered to go collect Edith after half an hour and Mum, Dad, Ernest, Edith and I began drinking lager and playing records in the dining room. It endured until 5:30. It was dark when we eventually emerged. Sue, who had closed herself off in the lounge to concentrate on her knitting, was on the verge of collapse from the noise of the merry making. The funniest part of the day was Ernest attempting to do a Greek dance which involved waving a handkerchief in the air. Edith insisted on flashing her pale, thin thighs and suspender belt. We howled in hysterics for ages afterwards. The four of them have decided to go off for a weekend to some poor, unsuspecting seaside town in about a month's time. It may well be Whitby.
At 6:00 Pete went to Harry Ramsden's and we devoured fish and chips heartily. The dear Blackwells departed afterwards, bless them, and I collapsed in a chair. This riotous living is no good.
Watched a Walter Matthau film on the BBC and retired to bed before 12 with James, Duke of Monmouth. Looking at the large pile of books by my bed I don't envisage getting through them all. James II may have to be dumped, I fear.
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