Sunday November 5, 1978

24th after Trinity

8th Sunday before Christmas

Hullo Guy Fawkes, wherever you are. Up at 10:30 for gallons of toast and piles of hot, buttered tea (sic). A sunny, bright, autumn day. Jacq and I stayed at Lawn Road throughout and had a pleasant time with Lynn & Dave.

Lynn dragged us round Burley for half an hour before giving us a massive luncheon. My job for the entire day was to stoke the fire and keep it blazing. Either Lynn's made a close friend of Arthur Scargill or they've found a rich coal seam beneath the house.

Watched a Fred Astaire film which included scenes from the 1947 Royal wedding at the end. Sarah Churchill, Winston's daughter, had a part in the film too. She certainly resembles old Clem. It was all quite nauseating.

Jacq and Lynn seem to have hit it off marvellously. Jacq sees a good deal of me in Lynn and vice versa.

Later we watched Lillie Langtry ~ no comment. Home in fog at 10 o'clock.

Mum and Dad had just returned from Auntie Mabel's. Mama looked really nice in a new green dress with the handbag and shoes bought for the wedding. She was laughing over the Sunday Express article about the Prince of Wales escorting Princess NORA of Liechtenstein.

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Thursday June 23, 1977

The diaries of John Evelyn have been sold for a tremendous (I keep using that word) sum at Christie's or Sotheby's yesterday. Are you considering put these volumes under the hammer? You might as well.

The 'flying pickets': Grunwick Dispute

A hot day but the Yorkshire Post prevents my becoming involved in it or participating in any of its pleasures. Kathleen was infuriating.

Home at 5 for sandwiches on the lawn with Mama and Papa. Tony rang at 7.30 from deepest Hertfordshire - or wherever Bishop Thingy is. He is back among us tomorrow. It was good to hear him.

Martyn is playing golf somewhere and nothing was heard from him all night.

On the news saw the 'flying pickets' in the Grunwick Dispute. (Please refer to your history books, particularly the Dictionary of National Biography and the illustrious paragraph on Sir Arthur Scargill, KG, NUM, , &c). Someone at home asked what Mr Rees, our beloved Home Secretary, is doing about all the bother and Lynn quipped: "Oh Mrs Rees doesn't like Merlyn watching all this violence on the television and so she hasn't told him about it." Brilliant. No doubt silly Meryln goes to bed when Childrens' Hour finishes. Roll on Margaret Thatcher.

To bed at 11.30 after another squabble with Mama about my financial situation.

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Monday April 25, 1977

A revolting day. Went to the office fully expecting a battle with Kathleen, over what I don't quite know, but to my great disappointment she is taking the day off.

Scargill: signed photograph

Sarah and I joined a trade union this afternoon. Yes, Jack Jones and that lot. A revolting thing for me to do in Silver Jubilee year but no one, and I mean no one, is going to cut my throat. I'm fully expecting a signed photograph from Mr & Mrs Arthur Scargill and red badge in tomorrow's post. I do feel somewhat restless as to what I'm going to say to the beloved chief (Kathleen) in the morning  but the main theme will be centred around the Friday night working - or lack if it.  I think I'll change the subject now, anyway.

Some boring oil rig has gone and sunk, I think. Billions of gallons of crude oil is giving Bridlington's director of tourism something of a headache. Black shit all over the beach cannot be a good advertisement, can it? I can't stand Bridlington anyway and besides, the cleansing of thousands of soggy seabirds will give the out of work landladies something worthwhile to do.

Read more of the 'Dear Letters' and watched a play on TV. Nothing more startling. Spike Milligan was on followed by repeats of 1969 Monty Python. Bloody hilarious they are - so good to see good comedy for a change. Better than all that 'My Neighbour Next Door' shit and 'Never Mind the Quality Feel the Tit'.

Bed at 11.05 with 'Dear Letters'. Looking forward like Mr Churchill did on the eve of Dunkirk to sticking one over on Kathleen tomorrow. Let not victory be denied ...


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