Monday November 5, 1979

_. Took our leave of Chillandham Cross at about 11:30. Up to Oxford and then to Woodstock, where we had a couple of drinks in the empty pub there. Blenheim Palace is closed until March next year, not that we had time to inspect the Oxfordshire culture anyway. The northward journey saw a deterioration in the weather, and freezing rain pelted the car as we trundled along. We emerged from the car at Stratford-on-Avon to inspect the town. My first visit to the home town of the Bard since December, 1974, when I joined Dave L and his college cronies on a marathon pub crawl. We went round the town like Dickensian urchins staring into restaurants and breathing heavily on cake shop windows. Heading up the M1 at 6:30 we saw almost every bonfire north of Watford. Smoke drifted over the motorway.

Ally is a petal.

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Sunday November 4, 1979

_. 21st Sunday after Trinity

To the Plough at lunch with Ally, Graham and Gill. It's an afternoon soiree for Graham who is resigning as barman to become an executive in Gloucestershire. Gill and I sat with pale and ghastly faces, gently moaning. A pity really because the salmon and hot punch looked very good. Ally ate like a horse and put away my share. I was very happy to quit the pub at 4:30 though.

The evening was weird and peculiar. To a dinner party at Graham Smith's place. [He was Ally's boss when she was employed at Wessex Area Health Authority]. We sat down to dine but only Ally and I ate. They watched, saying they were dieting. Who the bloody hell throws a dinner party and refuses to eat? Charlotte fussed over her cats, Oscar and Biggles, kissing them with nauseating regularity. Strange and odd, but aren't they all odd in Hampshire?

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Saturday November 3, 1979

_. Today we went to lunch - the whole clan - and sat eating long overdue toasties next to a roaring log fire. Fiona is a miniature version of her mother. Ally and I then went supposedly shopping into Winchester, but having little money bought nothing.

This evening out with Graham and Gill to Tolworth near Guildford. After drinking in a couple of taverns we went on to a house party at the flat of Graham's friend, Richard. Crowded. The wine flowed. A revolting tart with a plum her mouth actually suggested to me that Hadrian's Wall ought to be demolished and re-erected at Watford. 'Good idea', quipped I: 'We don't want the likes of you venturing up north.' Drank far too much wine with Gill. Ally didn't drink because she was at the wheel of Mrs D's car. I was hideously sloshed. Home at 5am.

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Friday November 2, 1979

_. Ally came to Leeds at 12:30 and we were soon on the road to Winchester. The car was packed and rattled along like Stephenson's Rocket. I was starving, not having eaten all day, but was banned from snacking until we reached the designated picnic site at Bladon in Oxfordshire. We arrived at 5 and inspected the church yard wherein lay the remains of Winston and Clem and various other Churchills. Such ordinary, mundane, unobtrusive tombs considering such great bones rot beneath, yet moving in a strange way. A pathetic looking white bouquet had been placed on Winston's white slab. I took a few photos but felt uneasy photographing gravestones.

We sat giggling in the car eating edam cheese with some violence and tormented the village cat who came to investigate. I wanted to make a Martini, but it was hardly the time or place. On to Winchester for 6:30. Barbara and Frank are there with daughter, Fiona, aged 10.  Mrs Dixon fussed in her usual manner. On to the Ship at Alresford and then the Plough at Itchen Abbas.

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Thursday November 1, 1979

_. November at last. The season of fireworks and falling foliage. I almost said tis the season for scarlet clad Yeomen of the Guard to file through the dark cellars of the Palace of Westminster in search of some foul plot, but Her Majesty is giving it a miss this autumn. One state opening of Parliament in June is quite enough for one year.

Ally came over and so does Lynn, without Dave, who is at home in bed with one of his headaches. Lynn blames the malady on the pork pie he had for lunch.

Jim and Margaret came later.

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Wednesday October 31, 1979

_. I suppose I really should say a few words just to be sociable if nothing else. But no.

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Tuesday October 30, 1979

_. I am an observant little chap, you know. Scanning through the Daily Telegraph BMDs I spotted the engagement of Sabrina Guinness's sister Julia, and then informed Claudia, standing in for Fred Manby on the People column. Miss Guinness is set to marry Michael Samuel, the Jewish nephew of Viscount Bearsted. The Prince of Wales attended a ball at Wilton House on Saturday where Sabrina and her twin Miranda were in the swing of thing. Some sad organs of the press were expecting an engagement announcement. People should be aware that royal betrothals are announced from Buckingham Palace in the age old tradition. The Prince of Wales doesn't turn up at a party and become engaged.

Spoke to Ally this afternoon. She had not spoken to Michelle [at WH Smith Travel] and our holiday is still in the air. It was a bad line. She sounded to be speaking from Apollo 13.

Peter came at 7:30 with a sheep's head in a polythene bag. Mum's eyes lit up with excitement, even more than the poor sheep's. We must be one of the few families in existence to devour the facial parts and brain material of that woolly, four legged moorland animal. For generations peasants in the area must have found it to be a delicacy, but now it is looked upon with derision and abuse. We are labelled pagan. Such a shame.

To bed with Hitler.

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