Wednesday December 6, 1978

On safari with Deborah ...

I fear my father suffers from chronic indigestion. You'd be surprised by some of the noises which cry out in the night and at times awaken me with sweat on my brow imagining I'm out on safari in Kenya with Deborah Kerr. Highly peculiar, trumpeting noises can be heard at all times of the day and night and people from miles around gather at our gate with cassette tape recorders and cameras to catch a specimen sample of Daddy's spectacular performances. He is to flatulence what Kathleen Ferrier was to opera.

Warmer today and no bloody fog. Jenny Rawnsley made a record at school yesterday afternoon and so Jim now has orders to purchase a "music centre". I don't like this description of a record player. It sounds to me as though he's going to put in a take~over bid for EMI  or the Rank Organisation. Poor, eccentric James. He could so easily have stepped from the pages of a Jane Austen novel. (I think Jane's "Five Go Off in a Caravan" is her masterpiece ~ Ed.)

Left the YP at 2pm due to the lack of work due to the strike. Malcolm Barker and I are now firm friends. He stood with me this morning showing me the EP copy as though I am the EP news editor or even ~ dare I say it ~ Helen Atha. Blimey I am becoming big~headed and fanciful.

Home at 3. Just ate and watched TV tonight.  "Edward and Mrs Simpson" was good. Cynthia Harris plays the duchess as a power~mad, selfish, calculating hag. Peggy Ashcroft is good as Queen Mary, and the girl who plays the young Duchess of York bears a remarkable likeness to her.

To bed at 12:40 after watching an interview with Woody Allen on the BBC. He really is the funniest man in the world, and so ugly too. I could listen to him for hours. Sat in bed with nothing to read. However, I won't let it get me down.

The mystery King of England in yesterday's competition was born today.

-=-

Monday September 26, 1977

Work was quite lazy. We made a birthday card for Michael Robertshaw, whose birthday it is today - his 21st. Eileen has been quite a misery since returning from honeymoon and today she smiled once or twice but is still quite off -hand with me. The reason for this I fail to understand but it must have something to do with Christine Byram's party. I have no intention of worrying about it anyway.

A Woody Allen film on the BBC tonight.'Play it Again, Sam'. Thoroughly hilarious. That actor is one of the funniest men alive I'm sure.

Mr Fishmonger's book.

Roddy Llewellyn.

Edith Blackwell has lent us a copy of 'Margaret: Princess without a cause' by Willie Fishsomethingorother. I fully intended purchasing it but after glancing over it I am so glad I haven't wasted the £5.50. It is just like the Helen Cathcart biography with a bit of extra spice gathered from the cheap Sunday newspapers and gossip from the European and American journals. Coincidentally the papers today have stories about Margaret in them. According to one, Roderic Victor Llewellyn (born October 9, 1947, son of Sir Harry Llewellyn, KB, and grandson of Sir David Llewellyn, 1st Baronet) is being groomed as a courtier with the intention of marrying him to Princess Margaret after her divorce next year. From his pedigree it's easy to see he is not the sort of low 'drop out' he's been made out to be. He is at least in Burke's  Peerage. Grandson on the paternal side of a baronet and on the maternal side of the 5th Baron de Saumarez. The young man no longer wears an ear ring and the t-shirt embossed with 'Roddy for PM' on the front has been replaced by pin striped suits and sober ties. It certainly seems he is being prepared for the trappings of royalty.

I retired to bed with Willie Fishmonger's boring, bitty book. I could do a better job and certainly get more of the facts right. Mr Fish 'n Chips in merely a profiteer, a sensationalist, a scoundrel. In fact I'm in two minds whether or not to go on reading it. 'Decline and Fall' by Mr Waugh is far more entertaining and certainly more of a bedtime book. Who knows what nightmares I'd be subjected to if I were to drift off to sleep after reading of the sexual exploits of Princess Margaret, which I am sure are based on nothing more than the idle chatter of ignorant people.

-=-

Monday December 6, 1976

Not as cold today, everyone. Leave Thornton-le-Dale at 7.30 but don't get to Leeds until 10 o'clock. The car is knackered and we have to drive without the radio and heat, and a terrible noise came from the engine. A silent, pondering journey gazing out at the bleak North Yorkshire countryside - my thoughts turn to Edward Heath and his devolution speech and the more serious matter of my festering in-growing right toe-nail. Lynne sits, tightly wrapped, in a rain-coat looking straight ahead whilst these important issues pass before my eyes. My thoughts also turn to another weird dream I had last night. It was about Miss C.P. I become quite depressed just thinking about it.

Don't get to the YP until 10. A quiet, miserable day. Sarah is off of course, and Mrs Johnson tells me tales of wild activities over the weekend with several of her 'clients'. God only knows what she's trying to prove. Get a bus in pouring rain to Sarah's at 4.30. [It] takes about an hour to travel six miles, or however far it is these days from Leeds to Horsforth. 'Aunt' Delia is in high spirits and she presents me with a couple of [flower] arrangements for Mama and one for Lynne's mum. £3.50 each.
Delia shows me some photos of her with Lord & Lady Bath and other great aristocrats. Keith Michell too. Stay until about 6.30 when Sarah drives me home. I'm sure Sarah fancies me. I'm not one to fantasize am I?

Lynne comes over at 8.30. She stays 210.6 seconds. Not seeing her again until Thursday. Can't say I'm going to die of a broken heart before that wondrous meeting. See Woody Allen in the film 'Bananas' which is great and then retire to bed contemplating my rotting toe. Dad doesn't panic when he sees it and he advises me to bathe it. This I do.

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