Saturday September 26, 1981

Port Patrick.

 _. Heavy rain. All at the cottage until after 3 and then we drove to Port Patrick and ate damp hot dogs at a take-away on the harbour there. 

Back at Corner House. Some whisky, but not too much. Bed at 10.

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Friday September 25, 1981

 _. Lord Cornwallis is not dead. He was prematurely reported to have died. A Daily Telegraph error. Heads will be rolling on Fleet Street.

Home at 1 to find Ally, clad in blue. We squabbled. On to Burley at 2, and half an hour later we were in Dave's speedy vehicle heading for Scotland. Ally and I had custody of Frances in the back seat. She's incredible with little fat, brown legs. The replica of a Giles cartoon, all cheeks and flared nostrils.

Towns flashed by. Kirkby Lonsdale, Gretna, Annan, Dumfries, Carrutherstown, Gatehouse of Fleet, &c. It was fine to begin with but the rain set in as we went further north. Arrived at Corner House Cottage, Lochans, at 7. John has done a spectacular job. The birthday boy is also the proud possessor of a Billy Goat called Sandy, and he's living in great comfort. Maria is smoking more, eating less. JPH loves limericks, the majority very rude. He was caught attempting to insert a cocktail stick into baby Frances's ear, apparently to remove the excess ear wax.

Corner House Cottage.

We left Lynn, Dave and Frances and went out with John and Maria to loud and largely empty disco. Some of the girls were in corduroy trousers, shirts and ties, all looking a bit Vita Sackville-West, if you ask me. Lesbians always carry large handbags. Have you noticed? Then, I went for a pee only to find two boys in a somewhat indelicate state of dress, pounding away in one of the cubicles. Blimey, Soddom and Gomorrah.

Home at 12:30. Maria decided to drive without car lights. We sat screaming as the vehicle traversed the dark, country lanes. Sat with Lynn and Dave listening to a Buddy Holly LP.

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Thursday September 24, 1981

 _. Pay day. See in the Daily Telegraph that Lord Cornwallis is dead. He was president of the MCC for many years.

Home at and spent a couple of hours stuffing clothes into bags and stripping the house of vital provisions required for our Scottish jaunt. We went to the supermarket for some last minute things and bumped into Graham Wiles, the EP reporter, rummaging through the packs of frozen lasagne.

Ally ironing [again]. Watched 'Fanny By Gaslight' a new series. We have had a postcard from Graham & Charlotte Smith, in Luxor, Egypt.

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Wednesday September 23, 1981

 _. Felt exhausted all day. I must be growing old.

At the YP, Sat reading the dull morning newspapers. Shocked by a photo of Moss Evans, of the TGWU. He is obviously going the same way as Lord Boyle of Handsworth. From a Harry Secombe shape to Mahatma Gandhi in the space of three months.

Rippon: romance?

Rumours about Angela Rippon and Capt Mark Phillips. Miss Rippon says she has eyes only for her husband to dispell stories of a romance that have surfaced in the Australian press. The little newscaster has been spending a lot of time at Gatcombe Park, supposedly writing a book. This has set tongues wagging.

Sarah has announced that she wants to marry Trevor before Christmas, perhaps on Dec 19. Register offices at the moment are refusing to marry people on a Saturday, but knowing Sarah she'd prefer to marry mid-week, like toffs do.

Home at 6 with a heavy head. Ally feeling not much better. ____________.

Mum and Dad have arrived at the Hotel Adler, in Alessio, where they will remain for a week.

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Tuesday September 22, 1981

Bassey: Goldfinger.

 _. A cheerful day at the YP, and not without incident. Shazzo, looking thinner, bounded into the office with tales of horror and hardship as a captive, for two months, in a seething Turkish city. She suffered serious abuse at the hands of her Turkish husband. Locked in a room with other women, and a record player, the only English voice she heard was that of Shirley Bassey singing 'Goldfinger'. In order to keep sane she sat in the squalid apartment, fingers in ears, singing along with Shirley. Her husband, Mr Kocq, is not coming back to Britain. He was here illegally anyway. Poor Shazzo is seeing a solicitor on Thursday. One can never tell just how much of Shazzo's narrative is genuine, but all the same she wraps it up and presents it very convincingly. She's a latter day Charlotte Bronte, if you ask me.

Home at 6. Spent two hours preparing dinner with Ally. Jill and Tim, the honeymooners, came to dine at 8. Homemade mushroom soup, grilled steak with chips, peas, corn, leek, fried mushrooms, cheesecake, chocolate cake, cream. Lutomer Riesling. They are a marvellous couple, and highly suited, and so 'easy going'.

Bed at 1am. Mum and Dad are at Cavaillon.

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Monday September 21, 1981

 _. I don't like Mondays. It was a hardship saying goodbye to Ally. Is this the way our life is going to be until I'm 65? Working or sleeping?

Gloom at the YP. Sarah had a face like a wet weekend. 'Mrs Slocombe' has returned from her Geneva sojourn with the ex-President Jimmy Carter look-alike. Mrs S looks very pale and I suspect she will have indentations from bed springs deep into her back.

Home at 6. Pork chops. Kitten was a hive of industry tonight. Washing, ironing, bed changing.

Foot: crutches

News: What is all this fuss about the squabble for the deputy leadership of the Labour party? When the victor is announced what will it mean? The title 'deputy leader' is worthless anyway. It's Michael Foot's job that's at stake if you ask me. To see the old boy staggering around Moscow on crutches is pitiful. Saw on the 9 o'clock news that the TGWU is to back Wedgwood Benn and not Healey. Healey was in front but is now 'neck and neck' with Benn. Laughable.

Mum and Dad are at Rully, in the Saône-et-Loire, tonight. Lucky buggers. Bed at 11 after a Michael Caine epic. Ally was collapsed over a Agatha Christie.

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Sunday September 20, 1981

 _. 14th Sunday after Trinity

We said goodbye to Mum and Dad at about 9pm last night. They left for the continent at 7am, staying tonight at Dunkirk. It all shrieks of the Second World War and not a holiday. 

We slept until about 11 and had a long, leisurely luncheon. Roast beef, flat Yorkshire puds, &c.

Hardy as Churchill.

Jim and Margaret dropped in at 3pm with details of an advert they want to place in the EP.

Did nothing but watch TV and listen to the radio. I cannot decide whether I like the latest Churchill drama. It's hard to imagine Winnie and Clem tucked up in bed together. They are too recent. It's perhaps easier to see Queen Anne in bed, or the Duke of Wellington or Lord Kitchener [who according to Lady Diana Cooper, liked to be flogged by boys], but not Winston.

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