Thursday April 14, 1977

A usual sort of day. Collected my weekly pennies at lunchtime. When I say pennies I'm not being silly either. Bugger all at work. Boring and uninteresting in fact. I feel quite normal which is strange considering the excesses of last night.

The Queen, by Annigoni

See in the paper that a programme on the Queen's Silver Jubilee visit to the Commonwealth is to be broadcast by the BBC tonight  and I realise that a horrible decision is going to have to be made. Yes, can a true royalist actually go out to the pub in the knowledge that Her Sovereign Majesty is to be seen, in all her glory, on the telly? What a dilema I am faced with. Yesterday I made a promise to go out with Martyn and Tony tonight and would it be right for me to go back on my word and break this contract?  What would her Majesty's wishes be if it fell my lot to be so honoured by her presence at this agonising moment of indecision? On my knees before my tiny yet masterly portrait of HM by Annigoni I ask for some divine solution to my heart searching problem. As if from the heavens above a pealing voice fills the room saying: "Go forth my son and take refreshment with thy friends". So, I did. Can't say I was thrilled by it though. I suffered all the evening from pangs of remorse and horror at whether I'd made the right decision. My lager lost that pleasant bouquet. The comfort of the Hare and Hounds took on the aura of Tyburn gaol, and the gathering therein looked dull and lifeless.

Judith and Kathryn sat drinking wine. How many different ways can a man spell Kathryn? Or more importantly which one adorns itself to the person of Miss K. Young? Katherine? Katharine? Catherine? Kathryn?

We go on to the Crown at Yeadon which is rotten. Who the hell told me it was a great pub? See Philip Knowles, and then espy CB. She says she'll call me. We go for fish and chips. Tony goes on ________.

Playing at ventriloquists and dummies.

No comment.


Back to the Hare where Miss Young sits upon my knee and we play at ventriloquists and dummies. She recites the alphabet in a strangled dummy voice whilst I drain a pint of that lifeless lager.




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Monday January 13, 1975

At the YP all day. Sarah is strangely subdued and almost sharp with us. Probably because Kathleen is off, and the heavy mantle of responsibility weighs too heavily on her slender shoulders. Sarcastic sod, aren't I?

Whilst waiting for the bus this evening I did comprehend an amusing sight. Christopher Monckton, the heir to that glorious viscountcy, marching down the central reservation of the dual carriageway on Wellington Street, rotating his umbrella at a fantastic speed, as though something sinister and unnatural possessed his very soul. I smiled all the way home.

Heard on the news briefly this morning that the IRA planned to kidnap the Prince of Wales several months ago but then changed plans without any explanation. It's an impossibility. The security surrounding the prince is so tight that even his own grandmother would be unable to nab him.

A man rang me today and asked me if the ventriloquist Arthur Worsley is the father of the Duchess of Kent. Can you imagine it? Arthur Worsley and his dummy - parents of the Duchess of Kent? I pretended to be unsure on this one, and went away sniggering to look in Burke's Peerage. He, the befuddled member of the public, seemed quite surprised when I informed him that HRH's father was Sir William Worsley, 4th Baronet. What a laugh.

What can have happened to Marita? Hang on folks whilst I go ring her. All will be revealed herein. Now then, where shall I begin? MM moved into his own residence before the weekend, and so the letter I posted today will have gone to the wrong house. Marita is going down by train next Friday evening and wants to know if Christine and I are going down with her. Super idea it seems to me.

Mum and Dad go to Esholt and the girls go to bed. Strange having no visitors for a change. Dave and Peter are almost permanent fixtures these days.

See TV all evening. Retire at 11.50 after writing to MM again, for the second time today. My first letter went to Horndean Rd which he vacated last week. My chat with Marita was the first one since the New Year.

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