Saturday January 12, 1980

_. Up at 9:30. Poor Tony Blackburn is on the radio. He's in decline at the moment.

Out at 10 to Leeds where I got the 11:30 coach to Manchester. A boring journey with only two fellow passengers. I sat on the back seat buried beneath my copy of 'The Times'. Fred Emery, in the paper, explained that Mrs Thatcher's TV image is fading. His excuse for coming out with this silly remark is because none of us can recall what she told us in a ministerial broadcast last Tuesday. I've forgotten the opening lines of 'A Tale of Two Cities' but certainly don't think the image of Charles Dickens is fading. When has the contents of a party political broadcast ever embedded itself into the hearts and minds of a listener? I have always taken it for granted that people switch off mentally at the sight of a crocodile-like party worker holding up a tin of Heinz beans whilst expounding the virtues of the governments prices and incomes policy.

To the Hollywood Hotel for 1:30. Spend the afternoon in the pool room. Not playing pool - good heavens no - just drinking in the pool room. Oblivion between 3 and 5. Tonight to the Georgian restaurant - that is Garry, Steve, Dave and I. Sadly, my steak was burnt to a crisp, but the others enjoyed it. Afterwards just Dave and I went to Rumours, the discotheque. Drank so much whisky throughout the evening that I had to have an alcohol free interval. People in clubs are looking so much younger these days. I could become quite worried if I thought about it.

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Friday January 11, 1980

_. I wasn't feeling well yesterday, but today I felt much worse. It was enough to give me the incentive to phone in sick to the office at 8:30. In good old YP library tradition they didn't believe my story. The girls in that office would have, in a previous life, made good henchmen for Thomas Cromwell.

Delia....

I spoke to Sarah who laughed about the Lit lunch. Delia, she says, told Harold Wilson that he is 'miserable', and asked him: 'Don't you ever smile?'

I cleared up some of the mess from last night and then took to my bed. Within ten minutes Delia was on the phone. It was obviously a put up job by Sarah to check that I was at home. I think Cromwell's henchmen decided collectively that I was in fact lodging at Ally's. I had Delia's version of her put down of the former prime minister. I climbed back into bed chortling to myself about the cunning of my work colleagues.

Slept until 2pm after which I felt restored to full health. Ally phoned.

Sue and Pete went to Lynn & Dave's. I watched the telly with Mum and Dad.

Here's something amazing. Nicholas Knatchbull, the grandson of Earl Mountbatten of Burma, who died with him, has left an estate of £770,000. He was fourteen and the youngest of six children. The enormity of this sum is a clue to the vast fortune of Lord Louis. His will, like all royal wills, is private. The money of course comes from the late Edwina Mountbatten, who inherited millions from her grandfather, Sir Ernest Cassel, and obviously it will have grown down the years.

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Thursday January 10, 1980

_. Busy day because Sarah and la Johnson were at the Literary Luncheon where the guests of honour are the weird combination of Sir Harold Wilson and Terry Wogan.

This afternoon I felt 'off it' and developed a throbbing headache. I haven't had a headache in years and decide I must be going down with influenza. Oh, and on the topic of disease and health I am sure you will be thrilled and delighted to hear that 'pnuemocallaghanicosis' has almost been wiped off the face of the earth, possibly with the exception of Cardiff West, where a mild form of this paralytic, debilitating disease still dwells. All thanks to 'Dr Thatcher', whose Tory vaccine has eradicated the ailment.

Home at 5 to be taken straight out again by Mum and Dad, who have borrowed Peter's car [the Toyota being incapacitated]. To the White Cross, where due to the lack of food, and alcohol flow, I was soon rolling around the walls like Freddie Frinton. Home again after a couple of hours. Ally came and we gave then the calendar plate.

Lynn and Dave, Jim and Margaret came at 9.

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Wednesday January 9, 1980

_. Well, here I am sitting in my sturdy little Anderson shelter waiting for the arrival of the Ruskies, clutching my mug of cocoa [made with rationed dried milk powder], my mind a seething mass of uncertainty.Will they, for instance, allow me to keep my job in the YP library. I think not. I suppose it will be fifteen hours a day in a munitions factory, or if, for some reason I decline to assist the occupying powers perhaps they'll make me spend the rest of my days at the offices of the Telegraph & Argus. A terrifying prospect. The one good thing that will undoubtedly emerge from our annexation with the USSR is an end to the national iron and steel strike that's currently bringing Port Talbot, Abervan and Rodley to their knees. The Ruskies don't tolerate strikes, I'll wager. President Carter says it will all be over by Easter. By that I mean the Third World War and not the steel strike.

Hon Mrs Lane Fox

I was kept busy this morning by the demise of the Hon Mrs Lane Fox, of Bramham Park. The old girl was the elder sister of the Hon Lady Parkinson [wife of our ayatollah, Sir Kenneth Parkinson], and of the Hon Mrs Hargreaves, wife of Brigadier Kenneth 'Arsegrease', former Lord Lieutenant of the West Riding. Won't it be a sombre Lit Lunch tomorrow?

Dave G phoned at 8:15. I promise to go visit on Saturday. My New Year 'good will' visit. Ally will of course be entertaining Graham and Charlotte.  She, the precious object of my affections, phoned aft
er 'Fawlty Towers'. Two pieces of news: the first is that she has taken an evening job at the Belfry restaurant at Bolton Junction from January 18, and is to do Friday evenings and Sunday lunches. This will help finance her increased commitments, which have brought pain. The other news is that she had laid hands on a 1980 Royal Albert Country Roses calendar plate, which we are giving Mum & Dad for their birthday. She is bringing it over tomorrow evening.

Bed at 12 o'clock.

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Tuesday January 8, 1980

_. Queer old weather. A mild winter will certainly make it easier for the Russians when they decide to invade.

Worried about Ally. She slept until 5:30pm after having 'over slept' again. I advised her to go see a psychiatrist. She phoned to remind me that Graham and Charlotte Smith are coming on Friday for the weekend. Charlotte is an opera fanatic and that is where they are bound on Saturday, to Leeds Grand to see Opera North. A disappointment awaits them, according to Sarah, because Elizabeth Harwood, the lady warbler, is well past her prime. In fact, according to Sarah, her voice has disintegrated completely.

Lady Rose Baring, lady-in-waiting to the Queen, is a granddaughter of Louisa, Countess of Antrim, who was a Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Victoria. Lady Antrim kept a detailed journal of life at court that has now been transformed into a book by Frances Donaldson, or perhaps Elizabeth Longford.

To bed far too late. It was nearly 1am.

Monday January 7, 1980

_. One of the 'weedier' daily newspapers reports that the Prince of Wales is entertaining Lady Amanda Knatchbull at Sandringham. More like Lady Amanda Red-Herring-Knatchbull. She is not pretty enough to be wife of the heir to the throne. Her nose too long and her teeth too pronounced, nothing hideous, but just not good enough. Lady Amanda is a close relative of HRH and I will repeat my previous statement that the couple are nothing but friends, with a 'brother and sister' affection for each other. Should Lady Amanda, or any other Knatchbull, become Prince Charles's wife I'll eat my continental quilt.

A dismal day at the YP. I did not hear from Ally, but despatched a letter in her direction.

Can I say something about Mrs Indira Gandhi? This sweet little Indian lady has seized India by the throat again, but this time she will not release her grip so easily. The papers talk about the 'tyrannical' Mrs Gandhi but I have nothing but admiration for her. She has restricted the activities of the Press and has jailed all her political opponents as any self respecting eastern prime minister would do.

Glynnie phoned. He's off at the weekend and wants to know if I can join him. It would be financial suicide.

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Sunday January 6, 1980

_. Epiphany

Breakfast with Lynn and Dave. Toast, marmalade, coffee. For some reason Lynn was in a foul mood and making Dave's morning far from tranquil. Lynn might be more pleasant on a morning if she ate something. I helped them dismantle the Christmas tree and then on we went to Pine Tops. Mum and Dad had taken down the Christmas decorations, thrown out the tree, and Mum too was a little frosty.

Lynn and Dave came for the afternoon. Paul Newman was on the telly. It's twelfth night and appropriately the BBC produced the Shakespeare play of that name. Superb. Bed at 12:30. Ally stayed the night because she's low on petrol and didn't fancy bumping into the Yorkshire Ripper.

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