Tuesday February 28, 1978

I'm not feeling very communicative, to be honest, but for your benefit I'll try to say something of interest.

A letter from dear Jacq awaits my attention. Blimey, she's done another Emily Bronte job. I'm considering bequeathing her mail to the British Museum after I've done with it.

Poor Uncle Jack (Myers) has been in hospital for treatment to his bowel, according to Auntie Mabel, but no further information is forthcoming. I've been thinking of writing to cousin Jackie but stop myself at the last minute. _____________.

Tonight I retired to bed at 11 with 'Sir Percy Hits Back' by old Mrs Orczy and let me state from the outset that the old dear has become increasingly dull over the past few weeks. 'I Will Repay' was excellent, but each novel in the Pimpernel series sinks lower in my estimation as I move down the line. That's my opinion. Anyway, I think the books are intended for 12 year-olds.



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Wednesday January 11, 1978

Snow, gales and blizzards today. Went to the YP feeling peculiarly industrious and worked without a lunch break until 4:30. Marita brought me to Rawdon which was a help. I ate like a horse on getting home and felt bloated and uncomfortable afterwards.

More 'gush' in the morning papers about Prince Andrew and his 'sweetheart'. Editors throughout the kingdom must have tired of the firemen's strike and the prime minister's visit to India because front page news for a royal prince is quite rare these days.

Ernest Bishop: assassinated.

Reading 'The Scarlet Pimpernel' by that baroness. I really should have read this at 14 or 15 but in those days - Oh how far they seem off now - I was into the heavy volumes of reminiscences of lofty 18th century geezers and had no time for childish fiction.

A play starring Hugh Lloyd on BBC2 caught my attention. This was followed by Deborah Kerr in 'The Prisoner of Zenda', Oh and the assassination of Ernest Bishop on 'Coronation Street' shook the entire nation. The Queen has sent a personal message of sympathy to the surviving cast.

I intended having a bath but by midnight I was no nearer my watery end and I sat listening to the roar of a 70 mph gale on Hawksworth Lane. The late TV news featured our seasonal weather as the main item of information and Mama quivered from head to foot. My God! If we can't have a spot of nasty weather in January when can we? What do they down at the meteorological office expect? A bloody heatwave or something? A sandstorm or a drought? Weather, and talking about it, is the British disease.

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Friday January 10, 1975

My first drinking session in what seems like several decades. Go to the Hare as usual with Lynn, John and Mr Baker. Joined by Keith, Helen, Andy and Linda, and the semi-human slag heap herself _____. Had a few minutes hysteria with Miss Christine Dibb concerning my patchouli oil. She says I've gone freaky and have 'crept out of my shell before the world is quite ready for me'. Such a perfect scattering of wit I have yet encountered.

Came home from the YP tonight on the same bus as Phyllis Whitethighs. She kept having to nudge me to stop deathly unconsciousness creeping upon me.

Unfortunately, everyone has undergone a severe set back, mentally, since last week, when they all rushed to Wikis, regardless of a lack of monetary reserves, and categorically refuse to entertain ideas about inhabiting the highly favoured nightclub this night. Miserable buggers they are. I think ____ overheard me refer to her as a 'cow and a half', which didn't do much for our declining diplomatic relations. Her little boyfriend gets me down with his obnoxious large grin and crawling expressions. Something really should be done to curtail his activities as a living human being.

Home at 11pm to see the 1935 version of 'The Scarlet Pimpernel'. Very good considering.

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