Monday November 21, 1977

Wet, cold and wicked is an apt description of today. The YP was quiet and inoffensive. Eileen is in hospital having something done to her nose again and won't be back before Easter _________.

Anwar Sadat.

Masses of drivel in the papers on President Sadat's hysterical trip to Jerusalem. The PLO will have him done away with before you can say Golda Meir. The poor man is doing his utmost to achieve peace.

Jacqui phoned at 1pm to ask whether I can stay in London from Dec 16 to the morning of Dec 19 so enabling me to be entertained to dinner by her mum on the night of Sunday Dec 18. I shall have to see what I can do. It all sounds very nice especially in these miserable times up here. I can think of nothing nicer than escaping to the metropolis for three whole days.

Mum and Dad went to see John and Maria for a couple of hours. Mum returned very cheerful and revived. Seeing her grandson has an amazing effect upon her. __________.

Watched some TV and read 'The Count of Monte Cristo'. By 12:26 I'm on page 870. I am going to throw a party when I finish the book. Took a bath and did some more reading. Dad's been looking at Shaw's preface to 'The Apple Cart'. He thinks GBS is a silly, cynical old man. He's more than that I'm afraid ...  he's dead.

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Sunday November 20, 1977

Ernest Blackwell.

Last after Trinity. Out to the Commercial just after twelve. Sue, Pete, Chippy and me that is. Had three or four drinks and came back to Pine Tops where Susan attempted to make lunch. I went to Edith's to ask what flour is required to make Yorkshire pudding and remained there for one and a half hours with Ernest in his kitchen drinking his lager (from the barrel) and grape wine.

On returning home I found the mortal remains of my lunch over a pan of hot water and no sooner had I started to eat it when Mum and Dad appeared. Mum was in one of her foul moods and not at all nice to Sue. I think they expected a cooked lunch on the table and the sight of a chicken skeleton and three cold Brussels sprouts cannot have been a heart warming sight.

To make matters worse I invited Edith and Ernest to come round at 4:30 and they arrived on time with bottles of wine. Mum complained of feeling tired and was far from sociable. We drank until about 8 when I evacuated the lounge and let go of my pent up frustrations on Delia's pheasant. I, with the aid of David, removed it of it's feathers and innards and conveyed the pathetic bird back into the house. I do not suppose it will make a decent meal. In fact, it strongly resembled a Vietnamese refugee. Nevertheless, one shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth ... or gift pheasant in the beak.

Mum and Dad enjoyed Norfolk but are far too grumpy for my liking. Saw a film and retired to bed at 12. Still battling on with our mutual friend 'The Count of Monte Cristo'.

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Saturday November 19, 1977

Just Susan and I closeted together for most of the day. I got out of bed at noon with a crashing hangover. For four or five hours I reclined on the sofa with a pained expression on my pale, ghastly face. Lynn went off to a wedding after lunch saying I am a disgusting specimen. She doesn't realise that we bachelors have a hell of a life with tremendous responsibilities to hold and reputations to keep up. We can't just sit by the fireside on winter evenings with a good book, perhaps watching "Crossroads" on the TV. Oh no, we have to socialise on a nauseating scale taking in parties, orgies &c, consuming grotesque quantities of spirits, wine and ale in the process. My God it's absolute hell.

with Chippy .....

The BBC went on strike tonight. I remained at home - quite alone - all the same. I even endured 'Match of the Day' featuring Wrexham and Colchester. Then I watched a Vincent Price horror film entitled 'The Amazing Dr Phibes' (1971). Not bad really.

Sue, Pete and Chippy came at 11:30 and they looked thoroughly pissed. Probably because I'm sober. We opened a few bottles. Sue was dancing in the dining room. She and Pete slept in Mum's room and Chippy slept in Lynn's bed. I made a mug of cocoa and listened to the record player.

The Duchess of Gloucester gave birth to a daughter at 2:05pm today. Unlike poor Princess Anne's child (also born at St Mary's Hospital, Paddington) this latest arrival will take a title. She'll be Lady (Christian name) Windsor. I bet Elizabeth is near the top of the list.

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Friday November 18, 1977

Margaret Phillips phoned me this morning to say Carole had yet another milogram (if that's how it's spelt)  yesterday evening and that they have discovered something in the pit of her neck which means she'll be having more treatment next week. However, her main reason for phoning was to let me know that Mr Phillips plans to be off work all week next week so enabling both of them to be be in attendance at the hospital on afternoons, and therefor my presence at the hospital will not be required. I wouldn't wish to meet John Phillips anyway. Poor kid Carole. It is of course her 20th birthday on Sunday. I posted her a birthday card this afternoon.

Although I'm just about broke I decided to go out tonight and not to leave the homestead tomorrow. Chris collected me at 9 and we went to the Fox where we were joined by Sue and Pete and Pete M. Denise was there, being entertained by Dave Rogers, and her sister Lorraine and brother-in-law, Mick. Tony and Martyn have gone to Batley Variety Club. To be honest I don't like these variety places. In fact I'd prefer to be held hostage by Baader-Meinhof terrorists for three months than be subject to the horrors of a pissed, aged and declining 'star'. You know the sort I mean, don't you? Des O'Connor, Johnny Hackett and such like.

Oakwood Hall.

From the Fox we went to the Hare at Heaton where Wendy calls everyone 'Kenneth' - this especially suits Peter Mather. Pete met Sue (of Smith's fame), and took me to Oakwood Hall. Any normal persons would feel like a tulip, or a gooseberry, or whatever people who get in the way of young lovers are termed. I didn't feel remotely like a rhododendron. I became quite pissed up. Most of my adventures at this very exclusive club are vague and hazy, and no dialogue of the event remains in my memory at all. Pete M and his Sue came back at 2:30 for coffee and I fell asleep on the rug at 4. Waking to find them gone at 8am.

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Thursday November 17, 1977

It's one o'clock on Friday morning so don't expect a John Evelyn-type of effort. I took a half day because Kathleen was getting on my nerves __________.

To pass the time whilst waiting for the start of hospital visiting time I went to look at the Stanley Spencer paintings in the Art Gallery and then, unimpressed and dejected, I went next door to study 'Burke's Presidential Families of the United States'. I laughed out loud, much to the horror of a sober gathering of students, on reading that Richard Nixon is descended from Edward III. (Aren't we all?)

Went to see Carole who wasn't quite as cheerful and looked depressed. She was wearing her engagement ring and so I presume that she and Fogarty have patched things up on Ward 26. Either that or he's given her the ring back because he thinks she's going to die. I gave her a Paddington Bear and left at 3.45. She likes me to visit. Her mum is sweet too.

Royal Albert teapot: £8.95.

Passing Schofield's (a shop) on the Headrow I spied a Royal Albert Old Country Roses teapot and forked out the £8.95 for it and carried it around town with it under my arm for a couple of hours. Got home at 5. Did nothing.

Drank a bottle of vino with Lynn and watched the Miss World competition. The title was won by Miss Bessie Braddock MP. Watched 'Rock Follies' which took me up to 12:30 when I plunged into the bath.

It's now 1:08am (Blimey, it's taken me 8 minutes to fill in this page).

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Wednesday November 16, 1977

The Press seems to forget that the nation is burning down (whilst Home Secretary Merlyn Rees fiddles at Westminster) in order to spread joy and adulation at the Royal birth.  No monarch has had a plain 'mister' for a grandson since King Edward IV, whose daughter Cicely married a licensee or fireman and had two kids and lived in a tower block in Salford. Yes, it's just like the Dark Ages all over again, folks. All we want now is a Great Fire of London in the midst of the firemen's strike.

Mum and Dad went to Ruby and Arthur's in Norfolk today.I'm glad Mum is up and about again. They're back on Sunday I expect.

Watched a David Niven film called 'Statue' on BBC2. A real telly addict these days, aren't I? I am reading everything I can lay my hands on as well. 'The Count of Monte Cristo' for instance, to name but a few, and 'The Apple Cart' by Bernard Shaw. Yes, good old G.B.S. To be precise, it's the 'Bodley Head Bernard Shaw Collected Plays with their prefaces' which includes The Apple Cart, St Joan, The Millionairess, &c, &c. Very good. I especially like his preface to the Apple Cart where he likens democracy to the sea and the fact that sometimes it is furiously violent and always uncertain.

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Tuesday November 15, 1977

Princess Anne gave birth to a son at 10:46 this morning. The news came into the office about half an hour later. Master Phillips weighed in at 7lb 9oz and he is fifth in line of succession to the Throne. I never doubted that the child would be male. The only sadness is that he is born without a title. On the six o'clock news we saw a 61 gun salute on Tower Hill. The captain was with HRH for the birth. Great news, anyway. Long Live the House of Windsor! (7pm).

Now you will probably be physically sick at what I am about to relate. Are you sitting comfortably and suitably close to a bucket, and in a strong chair and with a large glass of Scotch close at hand? No, it's just that I'm still battling through a certain library book and I'm only on page 785. Alexandre Dumas needs a kick in the rear.

Back to the Royal baby (11.45pm). On the nine o'clock news we saw the Queen leaving St Mary's Hospital, Paddington, after visiting Princess Anne and her grandson for half an hour. She looked very, very happy. Dad was listening to Mum and I discussing possible names and made a few suggestions of his own. Master Elvis Phillips was one, and Bing Phillips another. Mum says John, Charles and Philip will feature, and I'm sure Charles will be in there somewhere but can't imagine Philip Phillips. Other old favourites spring to mind like George, Edward, even William or Richard - and Andrew after the prince of that name. Oh, it's bloody wide open really. Mark Junior, perhaps?  Mark Phillips seemed to be hideously unprepared for confronting the media this evening. His speech, or lack of it, has become much worse and his embarrassment even made Angela Rippon go a bright shade of pink.

Watched TV after diving into the bath. Saw a play on the BBC which almost put me off my supper. Unadulterated violence and bad language.

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Monday November 14, 1977

Went to see Carole at 2.30 in a downpour. Managed to keep quite dry though. She was just as cheerful but looked flushed. Her mother says Carole's temperature is up to 120. I had her in stitches about something and she chaffed me and said I should not get her excited. Mrs Phillips was quite human but insisted as referring to me as 'Peter'. I told Carole all about Jacqui.

Nureyev: homosexual?

Tony, Chris and Pete had visited her over the weekend, and so she'd already been told of Jacqui's visit. ________. She is an Angel. I told her I will write and it gave her a good deal of pleasure - I think. I am going back to visit her on Thursday. It's so wonderful to see her. Three weeks ago I thought she had gone forever.

See in the EP that 'Valentino' is on (at the cinema) in Leeds. Sarah and I are going the week after next - probably Nov 24. Rudolph Nureyev is not homosexual, is he? As I'm always telling Sarah , you can't have big, butch swans can you?

Britain's firemen went on strike today for the first time ever. Let's hope that the home of Mr Rees, the Home Secretary, is alight tonight. Other important news: Princess Anne is showing no signs of delivering Master Phillips into the world. Today would have been apt, the 29th birthday of the food-poisoned Prince of Wales and the Princess and Capt Phillips's fourth wedding anniversary.

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Sunday November 13, 1977

Remembrance Sunday - 23rd after Trinity. A bright, sunny day. Jacqui and I walked to the Commercial at 12. The pub isn't full in the usual Sunday fashion but we enjoyed it. We discuss the fancy dress party at Lord's Cricket Ground on December 16. What can I go along as? A policeman? A tart? A French maid? No, we decided upon the late Groucho Marx who should be quite easy to imitate. I need to lay hands on a morning coat with tails and a pair of baggy trousers. Jacqui is going as Shirley Temple. Oh My God!

Poldark ...

We do get on well. ________. After a good lunch we went to Leeds where she got her bus (or coach if you're posh) to London at 5pm. Returning to Guiseley I saw Carole's brother, Peter, and his girlfriend. He said hello.

Just watched TV tonight. Saw episode 48 million of 'Poldark' and then a film. To bed at midnight with a certain nameless volume written by an author of French persuasion.




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Saturday November 12, 1977

I woke at about 12 and could hear Mum yelling about something from her bed. Evidently she did hear Jacqui and I listening to the stereo in the early hours and is far from happy about it. I hid for quite a while beneath the sheets until some sort of plan of action could be worked out in my enfeebled mind. I decided upon the straight, honest, Richard Nixon approach and just marched, with head held high, into her bedroom and said sorry. She was perfect from then on and just said in that famous, soft, musical voice: "Michael, you take your mother for granted." I fear I do. And she's ill too. I am a swine.

Haworth: the parsonage.

After lunch Jacqui and I got a bus to Haworth (Bronte Country and all that). It's like Hell on earth. I soon see why Charlotte, Emily and Anne never reached the age of 40. Bleak is hardly the word. What's more, it snowed. We dashed round the parsonage and then into a cafe where hot tea and cream buns failed to revive us. Felt ill and cold. Jacqui giggled. She can hardly wait to tell the folks back home who have never seen a desolate moor or the rampaging spectre of Heathcliff.  We spent more time on the road than we did at Haworth, and at 5.30 we got a bus home.


Tonight we thawed out and watched TV. Saw Penelope Keith and Lord Carnarvon on the Michael Parkinson Show.

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Friday November 11, 1977

Met Jacqui at 4.45 at the bus station and the weekend began disastrously when the bus broke down and we got caught up in a snow storm. By the time we arrived at Guiseley after 6pm it was so bad we were compelled to seek refuge at the Station Hotel where I phoned for assistance from home and we both had half of lager. I was carrying a pheasant (courtesy of Delia, who did not desire removing it of its feathers and innards) and the bird's beak poked through the polythene bag, dripping blood over the pub carpet.

Dad collected us. He says Mum may have a kidney stone. Dr Mellor says she must shed a stone in weight. Her blood pressure is high. She is pale and ill.

Jacqui.

The rain, snow and gales persist and at 8 Sue, Pete, Janet Simon and Chippy take Jacqui and I to the Fox & Hounds. They then leave the two of us alone and we saw none of the usual Friday night visitors. No Tony, Martyn or 'Piss and Crete'. We had a few at the Fox and then went to see Judith R and Kathryn at the Hare where I became quite pissed. I blame the vivacious Miss Young entirely for my condition. We sat in the Tudor Bar until midnight and then I ran around in the car park with my 'inflated' umbrella until it was smashed to pieces in the high winds. It disintegrated into a warped mass of fractured metal and plastic.

At home the two of us drank 2 bottles of Beaujolais and listened to the record player at a very low volume until about 5am. Nobody could possibly have heard us. Sue and Pete slept on the settee - snoring contentedly - until I had the foresight to awaken them after 3. Poor Pete dashed off home. He's working at 7.30am.

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Thursday November 10, 1977

Went to see Carole at 2.30 bearing a box of chocolates and fearing the worst. Leeds Infirmary is an incredible place to get in. The bloke who first discovered Ward 26 may well have been Capt Scott.

Carole is ill but one wouldn't believe it by looking at her. Her looks have not deteriorated nearly half as much as I'd been informed by other visitors. She was overjoyed to see me and was an Angel. For me it was glorious to see her face and hear her voice. Her mother was with her, and behaved very nicely. It was just like old times in fact. Carole is the bravest kid alive - and she's only just managed to hang onto that by God's will. Mrs Phillips says that on two or three occasions Carole was a 'write off', and it seems that their priest is wearing a path from his church to the hospital. I was horrified to hear Carole's description of several revolting tests they have subjected her to, and could not find the suitable words to respond. I am over awed by it all. Her body is paralysed after treatment she's had on her spine and she is blind in one of her eyes (but unaware of this). I left at 3.30 and returned to the YP promising to visit again on Monday with chocolates and sandwiches. In hospital Carole is actually eating meat and vegetables of the non canned, fried or baked beaned variety. She is putting up one Hell of a fight. I do love her. She loves Peter Fogarty. I just want to see her happy whether it's with me, Fogarty or the Aga Khan.

To the (West Yorkshire) Playhouse at Leeds with Sarah after tea at Delia's. Saw 'Twelfth Night' with Vivien Heilbron as Olivia. Incredibly amusing. I seemed to enjoy it more than Sarah who looked seriously bored by it all. I do think she finds me dull. We left at 10.30 and she came back for a cup of tea (she never partakes in coffee). Mum is still laid up in bed and the Norfolk venture is fading all the more. Poor Soul. I shall have to get her a present at the weekend.

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Wednesday November 9, 1977

Mum was taken ill after tea. Have we perhaps been subject to poisoning? God knows, but one thing's for sure - the Norfolk visit for Mum and Dad is now in jeopardy. (I bet Jeopardy is far nicer than Norfolk anyway. The climate is better than ours at this time of year, and Jeopardy has no ghastly Broads to contend with).

We watched a play on the BBC which, quite remarkably, is good. The leading lady, whose name escapes me, deserves an Academy award for her portrayal of a deaf and dumb Bradford prostitute who stabs an alcoholic pimp to death in the Lumb Lane. Wonderful family viewing. It made such a change from all the sex and violence so often awash on our TV screens in these restless times. (I'm spreading the writing out tonight because I want to get to bed).

Dumas: infatuated with typist.

You will sit back and raise your hands in horror that I'm only on page 728 of 'The Count of Monte Christo' (and I can't even spell his soddin' name right). I know it's truly pathetic, but I'm afraid the book is becoming incredibly dull. The count is certainly taking his vengeance very seriously and incredibly slowly. One would think the guy had all the time in the world. Either Mr Dumas had connections in the paper manufacturing industry or he was infatuated with his typist.

Bed at the usual time and attempted to reach page 750, but failed.

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Tuesday November 8, 1977

Quite a good day at the YP. A new journalist, John Longman, came into the library and I spent the day with him showing him the ropes. He seems quite a decent sort really.

Kathleen was in a strangely pleasant and unruffled mood. Is her sailor boyfriend in harbour at the moment, one wonders?

Princess Anne: married stableboy.

Read in the papers that Princess Anne is going to be delivered of the young Mr Phillips in hospital, probably the King Edward VII Hospital for Officers. So very sad and a horrid departure from tradition. Young Lord Ulster and Lord Nicholas Windsor were hospital born but no other royals so near the Throne have been. Ah well, I suppose somebody somewhere will call it the march of progress.

I heard, with horror and nausea, Kenneth Kendal announce on the nine o'clock news, that Princess Anne's child will not receive a title of any kind and will be known simply as Master or Miss Phillips. Born in a common hospital, and without a title! What a let down. My God, 'Private Eye' was right when it said, two or three years ago, that Gt Britain's decline could be traced to the sad day when Princess Anne married her stableboy. As the years go by I rely more and more on the deliberations of that knowledgeable organ, 'the Eye'.

Mum and Dad went to the Cow & Calf with John and Maria at 8.30 and did not return until almost 1am. ____. Afterwards they took refreshment at 69, Silverdale Drive. ______.

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Monday November 7, 1977

Sarah's 25th birthday. Her Silver Jubilee in fact. Not a thrilling day by any means and Sarah isn't in ecstasy at the thought of attaining her quarter century. With Eileen we went to Da Mario's on the Headrow at 1pm for a celebration nosh. Joined by Bev and Marilyn Wheeler. ___________.

Vivien Heilbron.

Back to the YP bloated and tired at 2.30. I told Sarah I would not formally recognise her jubilee until Thursday when we go to the Playhouse to see Vivien Heilbron in 'Twelfth Night'. Afterwards we shall have to let ourselves go. She does me a lot of good does Sarah Elizabeth. To paraphrase Bagehot she's a 'soothing influence on a dark and restless age'.

Tonight John came up to plan a night out with with Mum and Dad and Maria at a place of Mum and Dad's choice. They decide upon the Cow & Calf tomorrow night. _______.

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Sunday November 6, 1977

22nd after Trinity. Felt ghastly this morning. John brought JPH round after breakfast. He's grown tremendously, crawls backwards over the floor and says 'hello', 'flowers', 'dog', and 'daddy'.

Mum and Dad don't appear aggravated about the numerous guests asleep all over the house, and after they'd gone all I got was a sigh from Mum and she said that perhaps I'd invited a few too many to stay under the one roof.

John G, Phil, Kath, Michelle and Steve left at 11am because Kath and Phil have a luncheon appointment with relations. A damned shame because I intended having a big 'do' at the Commercial. A short, quiet visit really, but they can't be idiots permanently like some nameless beings are.

Mum looked after JPH and John, Dave, Sue and Pete and I went down to the pub. Joined by Tony. Afterwards we went down to Ings Lane (or Avenue) to look at a house that Lynn and Dave fancy.

Mum with Lynn , Dave, and Edith.

Back home we have sangria with the Blackwells, then more wine, sangria, wine, sangria, wine, wine, &c. Edith looked ill, old and semi-senile. Quite suddenly the woman's gone down hill. I'm sure Ernest knows she's faded too. She just sat, not speaking, and so dull.  Not a bit like the Edith of old.

At 8.30 Dave, Sue, Pete and I went with Tony and Martyn to meet Chris and Pete M at North Rigton. From here we went to a pub at Pool in Wharfedale, where I was knackered, miserable and thoroughly boring.

Martyn was attempting to be 'bitchy' and sarcastic with me but failed miserably so I had to give him lessons. He was joking with Pete M about my moustache but I beat all the quips when I said I'd had it grafted 'off my arse'. Martyn went hysterical at this. If a job's worth doing it's worth doing properly. I can think of nothing more pathetic than a wise cracker who is neither wise nor particularly cracking. Back home by 11.

Pete M told me I could have Lynne back at any time I wished and that she still loves me. He also went on to say I was slipping in my old age and that the millions of my female followers, who have always been my trade mark, have now deserted me. For Christ's sake, who does he think he is? Peter Mather giving me, Michael Rhodes, advice on the female species! That is the laugh of the month, I think.

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Saturday November 5, 1977

Dave of Stockport, John Grady, Steve Glenholmes, Michelle 'Pink Pants', Phil & Kathleen, &c, &c, paid us a visit. Dave arrived at about 5pm and the others at half nine. By the time the latter bunch came Dave and I were pissed on Mum's sangria and 'Chateau Pois'.

We went to the Fox and Hounds with Sue and Pete and met Tony, Martyn, Chris, Pete M,  and three or four females. One was called Edwina, but that's about all I can remember of them.

Peter M and John Grady.

At 11 we went back to Tony's (change of ink) for a party in the flat. Lynn and Dave joined us at midnight. They'd been to see the Rev Calvin Ward, vicar of Esholt, who is going to marry them on September 9, 1978. Good, eh?

John G seemed more reserved tonight and dedicated most of the evening, quite naturally, to Michelle. ____was getting at me quite a bit. My attitude is that he can piss off.

Phil and Kathleen are very pleasant people as indeed are all the Lancs/Greater Manchester contingent. Dave G is well in with Lynn, and it's great to see everyone hitting it off so nicely.

We were at Tony's until about 4am when we came to Pine Tops for a further riotous, yet non alcoholic session. Lynn made butties and coffee, but I was suffering from wild indigestion. I retired at 5am. John G slept on my floor. Chris slept with Michelle in the dining room and the remainder had the lounge. Lynn gave up her room for Phil and Kath who are, of course, married. Sue went to the Nason residence.

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Friday November 4, 1977

Leeds, or Atlantis?

Refused point blank to enter a place of alcoholic liquid consumption this evening. It is my own personal protest at the increasing rate of alcoholism which has taken place in the United Kingdom in recent times. By 1996 the whole of Yorkshire and Humberside will be submerged beneath a vast lake of lager, Beaujolais and Pennine Bitter. Leeds will be a pickled version of Atlantis.

I phoned Chapel Allerton (Hospital) to enquire about Carole and they told me she was back at Otley (Hospital) and so I phoned that obnoxious place where a nurse told me she is still seriously ill and not seeing vast deputations of visitors but if I want I can make an appointment and pay a brief visit when nobody else is in attendance. I'll go on Thursday next week with a box of chocolates or something. I shall always love her even though I find her exasperating and diametrically opposite to everything logical. Love is weird. I wouldn't have believed it possible that a couple with so much love for each other could make such a tragedy of what could have been an everlasting, idyllic relationship.

Tonight I stayed home with Mum and Lynn. Dad was out on constabulary duties until 10. We watched TV until the power workers plunged us into darkness at 11.06pm. Lynn and I sat laughing by candle light and retired to bed, in good spirits, before 12. The electricity was returned in all its glory at midnight and the evil power workers must have been grinning all over their faces at the success of getting 55 million people into bed.

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Thursday November 3, 1977

Pay day. The State Opening of Parliament took place this morning. BBC TV technicians blacked out the coverage of the 'spectacle' because they too want more cash from HM Government. When I say 'spectacle' I say so in more ways than you imagine because the Queen wore her half-moon spectacles for the first time at the opening of the British Parliament. The fact that she is become a grandmother in two weeks time must have gone to her head, or perhaps I should say face. The specs do not flatter HM one bit. I do realise that the Queen doesn't want to be a trend setter or sex symbol. The sole aim was to the read the rubbish provided for her by the pathetic government with speed and accuracy.

At tea time we had fish and chips washed down with a bottle of hock. Papa was pissed from an afternoon session with Mum, Edith and Ernest. They had been up to the Cow & Calf to enquire about a wedding reception for Lynn & Dave. It sounds impressive.

Sat by the television this evening.

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Wednesday November 2, 1977

GBS: died 27 years ago.

Ordinary day. Nothing startling to report. But not so in days gone by. (George) Bernard Shaw died 27 years ago this day, and Queen Marie Antoinette was brought into the world 222 years ago. I wonder if this pair have anything in common? I suppose they both have entries in the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, but that will be about it. Hang on, I've just delved into the Irish Encyclopedia under the entry for Marie Antoinette and to my amazement I see that prior to her marriage to Louis XVI she was in fact Miss Marie Antoinette Shaw, a Dublin-born shorthand typist, and a great-aunt of George Bernard Shaw, the playwright. Incredible. Isn't it a small world?

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