Angus Mackay Diaries Volume XIII (1994 - 1996)

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 128

July 30 1994 – September 21 1994

Saturday, July 30, 1994 (cont.)

Reading Shaw’s music criticisms, I was struck by him beginning an article, aged 19, in 1876, on celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Beethoven’s death. It had never occurred to me before that of course, S. could have known well people who’d known & worked with B. After all, think who I could have known & worked with in 1944. However, I didn’t, & nor I suppose, did Shaw.

Sweated over to Finsbury Park to feed Flash. Sitting-room with three young people lying on the floor. I said, ‘I thought I’d better let you know I’m in the house. I’m not a burglar, I’ve come to feed Robin’s fish.’ At least they sort of smiled, unlike the previous lot. It’s a long journey for a pinch of fish food.

Hottest & heaviest yet, with thunder forecast, but it didn’t materialise. I don’t know what happened to the thunderstorms of my youth, & I mean my youth not my childhood. It used to get heavier & heavier & tenser & tenser & darker & darker. Then a few rumbles of thunder, & the first huge drops, swallowed up by the hot pavements. A downpour, more thunder & lightning, & then it was over, the heaviness gone, but still warm. We have had thunderstorms forecast three or four times, & nothing. Still, my day was made by Justin bounding in & saying he was going away for the weekend.

It was heavenly to take everything off for the whole evening. Not dressing after my bath was lovely. Walking downstairs creates a little cool air around one, which you feel if you’re naked.

Have I said that I had an invitation from Julian. ‘Please will you come to a small party here to celebrate the 40th birthday of Salad Days with some of the original cast on Sunday, 7th August, 8 p.m. onwards. It would be wonderful to see you.

All this typed, presumably to everyone. On the back, written ‘do come, if you can face it – shall quite understand if you can’t.’

Of course I wouldn’t have gone anyway, but it’s interesting, I think I sense that he doesn’t want me to come. Which doesn’t surprise me a bit. He converts my complete boredom with a SD, with his own unspeakable emotional vulgarity, into an inability to face it because of the painful memories of D. it rouses! Goodness, if only he knew what D. thought of it – and him. Shall I ever forget the last night, she in that purple velvet coat, standing at the back of the stalls? I think she lasted about two lines of the opening chorus & retired to the bar. She took a curtain call. J. made a speech. She smiled & smiled, if she had stopped smiling, she would have fallen over.

Imagine the horror of that party! Horrid food & not enough drink, cast encouraged to quaver thro’ the whole score, taped to be played over & over later – but not to me. A gruesome thought. It’s a wonder the card doesn’t have ‘Zimmer’s at 10:30’ on the bottom.

Sunday, July 31, 1994

Just as bad. What did the Victorian’s do in their clothes? Fed Flash for the last time. The rather dim young man was ironing sitting on the floor. It seemed rude to linger long enough to stare at what he was ironing on.

Fish dead in my pool. Because of the loo overflow that R arranged the level of the pool is where it should be, up to the stones, but within reach of a cat for the first time. There was a large clear place in the weed or disease? Goodness knows, I didn’t mind much.

On H’smith tube station * picked up* a copy of George Mikes ‘How to be An Alien’, it has apparently sold three hundred thousand copies since the 1950’s. I opened it hoping for a real foreign view of Britain. What I got was lumbering facetiousness that would not disturb any sort of Englishmen for a minute. No wonder it sold so many copies, it butters us up, – aren’t we quaint? And more interesting than any foreigner. Oh dear, it might have come out in Punch.

*I mean I picked it up off the floor.

Monday, August 1, 1994

Still boiling. I thought old people felt chilly. I see, even now, an old lady in a wheelchair, with a woolen hat, a woolen coat, a woolen rug over her knees in a temperature of 82°, & that is inside, in a ‘shopping precinct’. I seem to be sweating more, though less in my feet, as a youth.

Oh, dear, ‘young’ people. Waited all day for Neil or K to ring. Neither did.

Fearlessly went to new film Paris France. I should have guessed its quality by the fact that it was at the MGM Picadilly. Silly, embarrassing, fearfully written bit of soft porn. All the worse because its ‘creators’ felt it to be art. Left after 20 minutes.

Tuesday, August 2, 1994

The heat, I mean. Awful. K. rang to say Thursday better, nothing from Neil. Oh I do hate such a lack of consideration. O, this weather! I have to keep my left hand off the opposite page to be sure I won’t wipe off the ink with sweat. Rang Tim in a.m. to say that I have had a good bit of cheddar from Sharron & rasps or straws from the market, so he need only do the main course, & I could do the wine & the gin & the whiskey & the coffee….. So that’s how it was. Not that ‘dear sweet good Tim’ as I described him in a note after the evening, is in the least mean – he has no money either, & I did tell him about John N’s wine. And he brought a good lasagna & some broccoli and some garlic bread. Well, he doesn’t guess I don’t like it. What’s wrong with bread as a central blandness, without which we can’t do?

The whole evening was a success. He is so much better, & was looking really well. I am so relieved, because he is someone we can ill do without in the theatre just now, not just because of his talent – considerable – but because of his mild gentle humorous temperament & his abundant common sense & integrity.

He still doesn’t watch ITV in case he says Mairéad’s commercial. I lent him my two volumes St. John Hankin & ditto H.H. Davies. How pleasant it is to have taken this friendship from that play in funny little Croydon.

Dinner in garden, by the way, & half way through he was being rained on. I didn’t notice till he said. He is a dear man. I hope he finds a good wife eventually, nobody deserves one more.

Wednesday, August 3, 1994

Still boiling. Going to be 70° all night.

On tenterhooks all morning till I got Neil & K, in case I’d have to organise lunch at Elfort Rd. Rang Neil at ten & got him. There is no ans. machine at The Bowdens despite all those wires for him to work at home, eventually I said firmly that it must be Thur. tho’ he preferred Wed. Well, K’s working & he’s not. Rang K. & got no machine & no answer. Rang again at 11.0 & got the machine. Prefer that to a snub. So it’s tomorrow.

Miserably hot, but started IT at last. I’ve got to send it to John D. this last time because of K’s loan & Edna’s legacy.

How destructive heat is to thought. Here, at any rate, for me. Lovely long talk to Sharron.

Thursday, August 4, 1994

Rang at 10:30 to see what they had or hadn’t got. No answer, only machine. He rang back after I got back from the shops, a bit thick, just up obviously. I said ‘I’ll do it, it’s all right’, assembled the parts of a salad niçoise, & a lump of boiled bacon to make a separate salad for him, as he doesn’t like anchovies or tuna or olives.

Got there at twelve-fifteen, with two bottles of Ardèche £2.25 from Safeway. He was hoovering the sitting room in a hangover trance, his face a bit puffy & swollen, as he always gets when he’s had a bit of a night, & had just got up. He has one of those soft faces that show this more. And, just like D. his brain doesn’t get going quickly. Two thirds of the way through lunch, in his case about an hour & a half later, goodness he makes me laugh. Dear Neil. The lunch was a success – the food, I mean – I think. In other ways, not so much. Too many calls between Neil & his agent, for my taste. And N. embarked on an exposition of the trial of O. J. Simpson, who, it seems, is a violently famous TV star of a violently unpleasant TV series in America, who is accused of murdering his wife & another man. It sounded all that one wouldn’t want of America’s frightful blurring of fact & fantasy.

None of us were interested, but poor N. went through it like an audition. Very boring. Still, K. found the boiled bacon salad eatable, & Sharron & N. had a second helping of the niçoise. K. said, in his trance, about three times, that it was ridiculous that the Ardèche was £2.25. His inflection suggested that it was my fault that it was so cheap. ‘Worth buying a case’. He made two lots of coffee, one after N. had gone, & showed me a very funny Bert & Ernie. I said ‘no answer to my letters.’ He said wearily, ‘I’ve got all your letters.’

Later, ‘we won’t eat all this’, & packed up a good boxful of the Niçoise which made my dinner tonight, & £10 for the food.

All lovely. Showed him my washerwoman’s hands, & said ‘I don’t come from the northernmost country in G. B. for nothing.’ Is it that? I’ve never seen anyone else who gets mushy bits on their hands from humidity. Or indeed the back of the shirt, black with sweat.

Friday, August 5, 1994

The fortieth anniversary of SD. Fancy. The only interest in it was one or two of J’s genuine melodies, a little bit of skill & wisdom in D’s scenes & The Bristol Old Vic Co. I suppose no one noticed that it was well acted throughout by real experienced actors. Badly sung & danced, except for Ella. But of course nobody knows or cares how abominably singers & dancers act.

Thank goodness no reporters rang me up. I wonder if they would have rung D. Ha! Found that little slip of paper on the floor out of my mothers Bible, ‘my first present from Jim’. Never noticed the dates before, Aug. 5. 1916. Odd?

A half page article in the Indep. on SD. The Look-at-me-photo, v well reproduced, & the article harmless. No factual inaccuracies, & no absurdities. Mentioned D.

Forgot to say that Justin went away last w/e to stay with Dominic. Dominic’s mother is obviously a genuine ‘60’s dinosaur, quietly asserting the dominance of her neurosis over all other subjects. He didn’t enjoy himself, not surprisingly.

Incidentally, I fear he is a shallow drifter & dreamer. He has done nothing about getting a temp. job in the theatre, & hasn’t even thought up an excuse. A writer?!

Saturday August 6, 1994

A programme about the new Tate Gallery moved me to tears. A shot of a young man alone at a table, by a beautiful window looking out to sea. Was he writing or sketching? Camera pulls back to show how beautiful it all is, the young man and a speck, yes, that’s what it’s for, to inspire young artists. And all of us.

Rang Mary, to find she was listening to the SD introductory programme, the one I turned down. She disclaimed any further interest, but I wonder. Article in The Guardian, saying it would repay more analysis. Help. I remember some Norwegian asking what’s the social significance of SD was. What indeed?

Went over to K’s to pick up steak knife I’d left behind by mistake. Match on at Arsenal. Even walking with the fans up the slope made me ache with boredom. What people. Amiable, no doubt, but …..

Wrote a card to K. I was amused at myself picking up the knife I let myself out, turning the key very carefully, so that the door should not even slightly slam, tho’ I suppose modern machinery can blank out a mere door slam. But how furtive & criminal that must have looked. Even then I made for the gate, clutching a knife. I hope no public spirited neighbour…..

Amnesty International set up three or four stalls of books in the market. Bought N. Mitford’s ‘Madame de Pompadour’, £1. I think the only one of hers I’ve never read. Some of it was of little interest, because I have little knowledge. But the human portraits were interesting, because I understand & share her standards. It was £1, second impression, a bit worn, but all illustrations.

Still too hot, though they said it would be fresher.

Sunday, August 7, 1994

Paul R. rang, he’s going to Spain for ten days by coach, 22 hours, £125, for a hol. before playing Johnny Boyle in which of those Irish plays? Oh dear, I mix them all up. He says L.W’s F is doing all right, I hope so. If high-class rubbish doesn’t go, where are we?

Really not too hot today, I didn’t draw the blinds in the drawing room for the first time for weeks.

During dinner, an extraordinary squawking progress overheading, was loud enough to get me up from the table. Ducks? Geese? Swans? Quite a crowd of whatever it was, & the noise. I only had my reading glasses on, but got a sort of impression of V – shaped flights. Geese, probably, but why so vehement & so loud? Council culling? Global warming? The end of the world?

So tonight, as Julian had his SD party, I settled down to liver & bacon, & only remembered it halfway through. The actual show went on last night. No wonder I couldn’t find it – it was on Radio 2. How infra dig.

Monday, August 8, 1994

I am cross. They keep saying ‘fresher’ & it isn’t. I still have washerwoman palm edges & a soaked back if I go out, which quite destroys my pleasure in doing so. Chrisya suddenly completely wilted. Is it just water? I thought it might be the thin string K & R. tied it up with, but it doesn’t seem to be that. It certainly benefited from the loo overflow, & the withering has followed us siphoning it off. I have put the hose back there, so we’ll see. But its collapse seems more extreme than just a fortnight’s drought, for a big woody shrub.

Big probably hideously expensive, elaborate magazine entirely on glossy paper, from the Performing Right Society. What must it cost? Out of our contributions. Looked at the obituary column of course & found Peter Tranchell, Stanley Myers, & David Kelsey. Can that be the David Kelsey, that curious flawed tiresome character through whom a wayward talent sometimes blew? He did write I think, & I wouldn’t be the least surprised to hear he’d died now, altho’ at least ten years younger than me. His toupets alone might have killed him. Stanley Myers, now he was a small self-contained musician, handsome, in again a small Jewish neat way, like his work. Why has he died, – he seemed quite relaxed. And Phil Martell – he was the arranger & conductor of Free As Air, & to my taste, was the nearest they ever had to a bridge between musical sound, & tinkling pianos. And of course Julian was too timid to embrace it. D. loved Phil, as did I on the one or two occasions I met him, & I now recognize the musician that he centrally was, like K. Well, not in the least liked him personally, but…

Have just noticed that the SD publicity in the radio times said ‘Julian S., who wrote the original score, adapted the version for radio restoring cuts made in earlier versions.’ Poor J. same story.

There is a poor little series on TV now with people detailing their hates. Tony Slattery chose that frightful little creature, William Hague who addressed the Conservative conference aged 16, in 198? & got a wild ovation. He is now a fat fair balding back-bencher. ‘William Hague was so far up Mrs. Thatcher’s arse all he could see was Jeffrey Arches feet.’

A gun club has been raided by a something or other which burst open the wall & stole numberless guns. The news item made it clear that gun clubs do not want publicity, & this particular one was hidden away behind extensive shrubberies not to say expensive security, which was why the crash thro’ the wall was necessary.

Odd that so few people think it disgusting that gun clubs should exist at all?

Hazel knows that Tom shouldn’t be interested in guns.

Oh, dear R. popped in because he was delivering some costumes back somewhere beyond me. He appeared in the d-room – after all, he has a key, – but he’s never come straight up into the d- room without warning. Not that I have forbidden him, so I can’t fault him. Of course, I mentioned the Neil lunch, to introduce K. & he said, idly, ‘oh, I must ring him.’ Not, ‘oh God, I must ring him,’ – with obviously no notion that K. has been really annoyed that he hasn’t rung immediately on such a professional matter. I gently said that, & R. said, ‘I’ve been so busy because Zoe’s mother has been in London.’

And I suddenly saw that his ease & warmth & willingness is really the weakness of someone who cannot bear not to be liked. He’s gone to Harrogate.

Tuesday, August 9, 1994

Again supposed to be ‘fresher’, but again I sweated enough to strip the moment I got in.

I’d gone out to pay my Alliance & Leicester £20, & to see the tax people. I have to say they’re very nice & the most understanding of anybody in my difficulties. Compare the bank – & I pay the bank to serve me, or I did. At last sent the tax papers off to John Davis so that’s one source of guilt removed. Now it’s only darling K’s payments I must worry about.

Wednesday, August 10, 1994

A cloudburst at about ten to ten for half an hour, as violent as any I’ve ever heard. Went down to check windows & doors & drains. And then went down twice more as it got more & more noisy & violent, just to be sure. In the end I had to shut all the doors is between me & the greenhouse, because the noise of the rain on darling K’s roof, drumming & it didn’t let in a drop.

There was a programme about savages. All those awful people having children. I switched over to an infertility programme. Two more awful people having children.

I asked Justin if he finished The Folding Star. ‘I’m such a slow reader’. No, he’s such a poor reader, who obviously cannot get the sweep of a book.

Mary L. told me she heard a radio announcer say, ‘today Marcia Chase is a hundred and eleven… I’m sorry, Marcia Chase is ill.

Thursday, August 11, 1994 Darling K. rang on the melancholy subject of money. I haven’t been able to pay him the £200 for June & July. I can pay June next week, but where July & August are to come from……

I am a bit surprised that he is surprised. I said I must sell the flat, & we must have a talk. He suggested investigating the Home reversion scheme again. Well, it would make a bit more sense, as I am a bit older, & there is no huge debt to be paid off at once. We’ll see, but there are difficulties, such as losing my benefits. How good he is to have taken me on like this, to the point of him being really troubled.

How thoroughly dreary money troubles are! He felt I couldn’t afford – or he couldn’t! – John Davis any more. I rang back after a couple of hours, during which I couldn’t get through because of that absurd ‘waiting’ facility (sic) which it turned out Sharron didn’t know how to use. Well, they’d both better get hold of it, or they’ll be real trouble. I rang John Davis & told him to send the papers back, & I’d do it myself, despite the SD sale & K’s mortgage. And I rang some insurance brokers, but didn’t hit on any that did reversions, so got a promise of a comprehensive pamphlet from Age Concern.

It is certainly testing to be tied financially to him as well.

Friday, August 12, 1994

Janet rang & chatted & asked me, no, told me, to do her front garden. Now, that is a friendship. And Andrew rang to say that the dressing gown was finished!!

It’s only taken nine months. And the dear thing remembered the curtains. He’s giving a party on Sunday week at two in wildest Hackney. No it’s not Hackney, it’s Newham, it’s West Ham, it’s Upton Park. I think, perhaps not.

Saturday, August 13, 1994

John Hannah, Simon’s partner in Four Wedding’s & A Funeral being now in much demand because of that success, was being interviewed on Pebble Mill. He said he wasn’t gay – so the interviewer said did he find it difficult playing a gay part. ‘No, because Simon would be very easy to fall in love with.’

Left a message on S’s machine to say that, & to tell him about Janet’s birthday present of a cartoon of him.

Justin is being a waiter again tonight & tomorrow. Divine.

Re-read Persuasion & was reduced to shuddering tears again.

Sunday, August 14, 1994

TV photo session on top of building in New York for US company going to Edinburgh Festival, vertigo, disgusting, obscene crudity.

Monday, August 15, 1994

Dull dreary hot day thinking of the ruin of my life. Fancy.

How little housework & gardening I do in this sweaty weather. I must remember how unsuitable it is for me.

Paid in K’s £192, with £45 in the Halifax, all I have now.

Tuesday, August 16, 1994

At last its really cool, so perhaps I can get a few things done.

Nasty wind which half broke-up the tomatoes. What are we doing having that sort of wind in August?

Have I said how amused I was that the notices of Saint Joan & Lady W’s Fan, were as usual if not more so. Now the poor little modern critics see profundities all sorts in Oscar’s poor little tinsel plot, & the usual accusations of verbosity & coldness etc etc. For S. only worse because they are even less intellectual than the earlier brigade. It’s cut! That shows someone can’t follow the argument. Still it’s encouraging to find that he’s still ahead of his time, and a ‘world classic’ despite them. If only all the plays could be turned into musicals, against his direct instructions, how successful he could be. Headline – Enoch Powell says Christ was not crucified.

Wednesday, August 17, 1994

How odd that so few people feel terror as I do, that births are at 94 million a year. That is terrible news in every possible way. At least our Euro society, while idiotic about ‘kids’, has the lowest birth rate in the world.

Watched a bit of the Viennese Proms. A lot of nasty little decadences are creeping into the Proms. They’ll be sorry they allowed them, as only a little further, and no one I would call a serious artist will submit to the conditions. A Viennese night is one thing, but even as it was Felicity Lott had to stop the promenaders from humming, & such habits will spread, as taste declines.

I listened to a bit of an agony aunt program between eleven & twelve. Pathetic man, who is a musician, had no sentimentality in his inflections. ‘My mother died & I was devastated by that. And she started an affair with someone in the band. She’s the singer & I’m mixing sound & I’m sitting there watching them. She’s off with him now.’ He was looking after the two children.

Tuesday, August 18, 1994

K. rang & said Sunday, so that we can go through it all. Such a relief.

Answered the ‘phone this p.m. & it was as it often is, Justin’s mother, but this time she started to talk & we went on for about twenty min’s. A sad little story, ‘I spoilt him, everyone says, by giving him everything he wanted.’ Er, yes. ‘Steve was taking him on a weeks holiday to Ireland, but told him it was off unless he got some sort of job.’ And ‘Miranda & James work so hard & they’re so furious.’ And so on, & so on. A gloomy little story, & Justin is so touchy & yes, spoilt. I don’t see much future for him, not because of the lack of push & weakness, but because I have no indication of any talent at all, as yet.

At last someone has said disabled athletes are embarrassing. Well, not so much embarrassing as ridiculous, all part of the suburban/ American habit of pretending that the disabled are the same as anyone else. There was a fuck on TV last night, showing a female orgasm from inside. Where was the cameraman standing?

Friday, August 19, 1994

The 50th anniversary of Henry Wood’s death. So The Serenade To Music is being revived. Oh, dear, musicians. Vaughan Williams said, ‘I dare say some text springs to mind.’ The text that sprang to mind turned out to be Lorenzo & Jessica – it’s about music after all. The fact that it happens to be a supremely beautiful passage by the greatest English poet, which only someone with tin ears for poetry could think of doing anything to it, except act it as well as it can be, naturally means nothing even to a musician like V. Williams, & what librettist.

What everyone owes to Henry Woods cannot be measured. I believe that the BBC mightn’t have had such a bias towards classical music without the proms having started some twenty-five years before. Dear good man.

Well. Well! Justin came in with the rent, & said he wanted a word. Ominous. He said he wanted to give me a month’s notice. I said I thought he was happy here, & he said he was, he was. He started what was to be his life story, oh dear! How familiar it all was. The – ‘I don’t know why I feel like this’, with a complaisant little smile. ‘I feel worthless’, with a few more fragments of psychiatric & social workers jargon, all giving him permission to be as lazy & self-indulgent as he likes. A melancholy story unfurled, starting with a foolish & indulgent mother and an alcoholic father – a real alcoholic, not just a drinker. As the entire recital took four and a half mostly intensely boring hours, & as he has to include every detail, including ten year old conversations reported verbatim (sic), I shall try a few short sentences.

(This all bodes ill for his future as a writer.) He feels his troubles can be traced to sexual advance advance he made to a friend called Julian when they both were thirteen. Julian resisted, he was forceful, though nothing very sexual seems to have happened. Julian accused him. The headmaster heard of it, Justin’s mother drove them both over to Julian’s house, & forced him to tell the headmaster he lied! (How? Did she force him, I mean?) At seventeen he ‘came out’, traumatic for all concerned no doubt. He was ‘brilliant’ all through school, but suddenly got only two O-levels instead of the nine his teachers constantly expected. ‘Something happened, – I don’t know, no one knows, what it was.’ I restrained myself nobly from guessing that it was perhaps that he hadn’t worked hard enough. He left school. He went back to school with difficulty & took one A-level. He left school because parents couldn’t afford it any more. He went to a crammer’s. He went to a college of printing & left after a term. In between he went back home for nine months, twice, to do nothing. All through he was hinting at something so bad he could tell almost no one. ‘Drugs’? HIV positive? Murder? Eventually, oh, that eventually, he said he was being a rent boy in a male brothel in Sydney St. Sydney St. good heavens, what would Susan Stutchbury’s aunt say?

He wants to leave so as to get his benefits back, so he won’t have to rent. He’s told Tara who was disapproving, and Seamus who was envious of the money. Not the family, of course. What a repository I am of secrets young people can’t tell their parents. Poor chap, it must be gloomy work, perhaps tiring, perhaps disgusting. But goodness, he is typical of prostitutes in being uninterestingly fatalistic & lazy. Still, I’d like to keep him for a lodger if I can, because of his mildness.

I must remember to be Sir Thomas Bertram in the next few days. I see him looking slightly resentful, slightly ashamed of his confession. I must be exactly the same as before.

Saturday, August 20, 1994

Sunday, August 21, 1994

What a curious world the television set makes with a thousand echoes from the past every day, & not just an echo, the past itself. A film The Sorcerer, directed by Michael Reeves, a young director who died aged 25, after making only one more film, starring Boris Karloff, with Catherine Lacey ‘teamed’ with him, the year before D. did ‘40 Years On’.

It must have been a pretty poor comedown for C.L., as an intellectual actress. A year later, D. had never pursued C.L.’s career, never resented her unpleasantness to her, would never take pleasure in her or anyone’s discomfiture or failure.

So here I am hung over after K. stayed till quarter past two, last night. Justin went out, thank goodness. Drinks on the balcony, dinner in the garden. We went thoroughly into the home reversion scheme. He made two or three of his good suggestions. ‘Raise £5000 a year so that you won’t disturb yr benefits.’ ‘There’s a scheme for pensioners to take a lodger & keep yr benefits.’ He was pleased with me for having gone into it thoroughly.

I’d rung him to bring the stuff for the greenhouse door, & he brought it & explained it & I had to stop him doing it before the g & t s.

Hilarious half an hour telling me about a musical about trans-sexuals. I’m not clear who its by. Being K. he borrowed a skirt from Sharron, I suppose let down his hair, put on some lipstick, & went to a trans-sexual club. There was a torture chamber, where everything was going on, with people wanking in corners. ‘I went to the ladies to freshen my lipstick.’ (‘The ladies?’ I said,’ why was there a gents in a trans-sexual club? By the way, I think he meant a transvestite club.) There was a plum businessman putting on a short curly blonde wig. He looked at K. and said wistfully ‘that’s all your own hair, isn’t it?’

He met a band there, all in skirts & high heels, lead guitar, Wendy. He asked them back to the studio later in the week. They arrived in their dresses, & ‘they’re playing was complete crap.’ Bad Rock. I didn’t like the sound of Lewis the eighteen year-old most aggressive Sid vicious like member of the band. K. dared to mention that he didn’t walk like a woman in his stilettos, & got a stream of vicious language in return. He had to send him away with a flea in his ear in the end. I hope it won’t result in a brick through the window or worse. Interesting that K. has always had a faint tug to dressing up like that.

We had a good little talk about Roy’s attitude to him. I told him that I have often felt a faint reserve in Roy’s manner when I praise or relish K. Not sure quite why. Is it that Roy’s tastes are in many ways nearer to mine than K’s, books & so on, & he can’t think why….? Is it that he thinks I overestimate K’s gifts & character? Goodness knows, but the reserve is there.

Today, Sunday. Wilfred Thesiger, interviewed by David Attenborough, described catching his first salmon as ‘the most thrilling thing that ever happened to me, the powerful thing, flopping about dying.’ Hunting is, of course, non-sexy sex.

It’s the element of competition that makes games & sports not only uninteresting but unpleasant to me. I can’t bear to watch if someone loses & I don’t care at all who wins. I can only watch Wimbledon after I know who’s won.

Monday, August 22, 1994

A ghastly thing. S’s stage-Director for Carmen Jones, Tim Williams, came back from Plymouth, where the first date of the tour was played. He got to his flat in Rotherhithe, at 2 a.m., & found his wife raped & battered to death. I do not need to imagine part of his ordeal, but the full horror is almost unbearable even to think of. He had rung her earlier, when she was certainly dead, on the bed by the answering machine. I know how much S. will feel it too, & the difficult decisions to be taken. At this early stage of the tour, some of the nuances of timing & so on, maybe only in that poor young man’s brain.

Rang K. & told him. He was shocked & wondered if he’d worked with him.

Tuesday, August 23, 1994

There was a documentary about The Open Air Theatre. I never see it but I think of Fay Compton’s ‘Half pay & double pneumonia.’

I wish present-day actors would realise that laymen should not be allowed backstage, especially to comment in a film like this. We always appear foolish to the outside world, not to mention that actors, if approached by a camera, act. The number of actors who should be allowed to talk about acting even to other actors, at any time or place, can be counted on the fingers of, at most, one & a half hands.

The Hermia/Ophelia thought ‘the dream & Hamlet are very different plays. One is comic. One is tragic. It’s tiring.’

Wednesday, August 24, 1994

Went to see about my tax. Paid £10 to one debt & £10 to the other. Found they didn’t deal with tax enquiries. It was too late to trail to Charles House. Bother.

R. rang at last. ‘Well I’ve been busy.’ No ones too busy to pick up a telephone. Ah well. Rang K & said, ‘Anything useful I could say?’ He said, rather cruelly, ‘get a life’. ‘Oh’ ‘no, no. But no.’ And no chat. But then he seldom does. And nor did D. Odd.

The basil has been a huge success this year, two bowls brimming over with foot-high healthy plants. What happened last year when I did exactly the same, & they damped off almost at once.

Thursday, August 25, 1994

R. arrived at twelve. I had decided to use whatever I had by me for lunch. When I told him, he said, with a grin, that that’s why he’d rung so late, to test me. I did that cheese & crouton omelette from the E. David French Country Cooking, & I did some bacon, in case it wasn’t enough. A lettuce & chicory salad. It all seemed to go down well. His big news was that Zoe’s father has passed on to them and all expenses paid trip to the Hyatt Hotel in Dubai. A fortnight & a bit over, including his b’day. Rather them than me, 100° & imagine the other people… I shall send them a card saying glad I’m not there. He is bringing Flash round for me to look after. It’s so much better than trailing over there.

Rang K. to say perhaps he could force R. to some action before Dubai. In the middle of a session, so I hope he registered it properly. It’s the sort of thing he has to have explained to him.

Dear Andrew rang to say he’d be arriving at 7.0 instead of 6.00. Unusually considerate for his generation, as I’d be sitting with my poor ear glued to the doorbell.

Two small toms off the plants already, which seem not to have suffered from being broken down by the wind.

They started cooking onions upstairs at ten-thirty, so that I had to close the fanlight. The front door was slammed at 12:30, right against the head of my bed.

Justin went off to Greenwich for dinner & and has stayed the night. I forget how wonderful it is to be alone.

Oh, forgot to say that R. told me about his two nights in Harrogate, where the Music Festival was on. ‘Not that you’d have known, I didn’t see a single announcement or poster, either in the hotel or anywhere else. By 6.30 there was no one about in the streets. I saw a man park & pay for 20 minutes. The traffic warden watched him do it, watched him go & then waited for 20 minutes, to be able to fine him at the first possible moment.’

2.0. a.m. No wonder I’m fat. After finishing my whiskey felt peckish. Went down & fried an egg & a bit of fried bread. Liked it, so had another.

Friday, August 26, 1994

A program on the Rolling Stones, who are now 50-ish, showing their fans, the mothers of the Take That fans screaming & shrieking in exactly the same style. Such displays have set into concrete, a comic thought when each group is presented as the very latest thing. Neither I, nor anyone I have ever known has screamed at a concert, & I cannot imagine it at all. But it is certainly infinitely pathetic, that more or more people refuse to be middle-aged. If the RS were young again, I suppose the fans would scream in the same way. And the skill of them all is minimal.

Andrew J. turned up at a quarter to seven, & I tried on the dressing gown. It is perfect, & so unlike life, exactly as I pictured it. First of all, it is big enough. Big enough to be able to wear plenty under it. Big enough to cover my feet when I sit down, & sleeves which reach the knuckles. It is a cassock, more or less, with a vent in the back of the skirt, and a side fastened front, with plenty of lap over, so that at last I won’t have a draughty throat.

It’s in fine but very warm very dark navy wool, lined with paler blue cotton, the sleeves and the tunic top piped in medium blue silk, which also covers the buttons. The main delight of it, apart from the warmth, is that I can slip it on over anything – or nothing, & still look respectable. Old clothes, & all my clothes are old, & old flesh should be covered.

Delightful evening with Andrew. One of the few people who looks at the books. He goes to the loo & I worry that he must be ill…..

He did all the curtain rings so I can draw them again in my bedroom. Bean soup, cold chicken, substantial salad, straws. He gave me vivid glimpses of what hell Dennis Marks is. It’s the usual, cutting costs without knowing the business. Certainly extravagance should be controlled, but then you’ve got to be able to recognise it for what it is. As I said to him, ‘yes, silk chiffon is expensive, but you’ve got to know that sometimes nothing else will do’. He only produced one real shriek, ‘what was the choreographer like? ‘my dear, he couldn’t find his arse with both hands’

Saturday, August 27, 1994

To my complete despair the water heater broke down again. I have no money to repair it. I was so miserable, I had a bowl of soup & went out. Walked round for a time, thinking how unpleasing most of the tourists are.

Eating in the street is so ugly, & I noticed the vast majority have come all this way, & notice next to nothing.

Eventually walked to The Renoir to see the new French film, Le Parfum d’Yvonne. Well done, but a little remote & uninvolving. I don’t think it was me – most of the notices said the same.

I hadn’t noticed before that The Russell Hotel has on one window, Virginia Woolf’s Hamburgers Grills & Pasta. Like Shaw’s remark about blasphemy, if you’ve heard of her, it’s offensive & if you haven’t, it’s meaningless.

When is my bad luck going to end? Of course machines know I don’t like them. Re-reading the Nine Tailors to take my mind off my tax & a new lodger, I came across ‘gengerous’. Is there such a word? Sept 5. No, it’s a misprint I think, OED. It may simply be a misprint for ‘dangerous’ which would fit. But Sayers is perfectly capable of using unusual words, rather relishes doing so.

Only bright spot, in an evening-long tribute to Lew Grade. There was an episode of Edward the VII, & I just knew it couldn’t be the one I was in – but it was. I got a ghastly glimpse. That means a repeat fee, & it might be quite good. ATV always paid well, & with the renegotiated fee, … well, cross fingers.

R. rang & was v. sweet, could he do anything & ‘try not to worry about it.’ I don’t want to worry K. What a mess I’m in.

Sunday, August 28, 1994

I am delighted by the news that motorway tolls may come in, here & in Europe. Even in Germany: ‘Germany invented autobahns where hairy chested motorists can drive as fast as they like.’ And there may be electronic cards keeping track of every car, so no freedom.

What is so lovely about this development is I don’t drive, only affects me positively & it inhibits, I hope, the selfishness, the pollution, the ridiculous ceaseless movement.

Then there are the three druggies at The Commonwealth Games, with the implication of tip of the iceberg time, beginning to confirm my prediction, & D’s of sport’s collapse from inside.

12:10 a.m. A tiny moth, wingspan no bigger than my little fingernail, flew from behind my left shoulder & across the room. The window has not been open for weeks. Has it come all the way from the drawing room fanlight, through a hall & two doors? Cream, as far as I could see, & I am sure that if I could have found it settled, it would have been ravishingly beautiful. But how long ago seem the days when you had to keep the windows shut to keep out the clouds of moths, in B’mouth, even in London & especially the cottage.

Monday, August 29, 1994

Bought a buckling for the first time for ages. I love smoked fish an ideal lunch or starter for me. D. says in her little cookery notebook, ‘A. says buckling is better than smoked trout.’ Yes, it’s better than anything, but the best smoked trout, & of course, infinitely cheaper. Did I say that Safeway also has smoked sprats at £1.40 a lb. And the buckling is more filling than a trout, a lunch for 26p.

Listening to the ‘planes thundering almost ceaselessly by for a time, I was reminding of that time forty years ago, of waiting for D. down from the show, at the kissing-gate on the road. I gradually realised that, waiting for her at the gate, there would not be silence, that I could no longer listen to the bottom of my ears & that yet another engine would come over the hill. Didn’t I say, the ceaseless stupid movement? I cannot like anyone who doesn’t wish to pursue silence.

Tuesday, August 30, 1994

Did not ring the water-heater engineer because I haven’t got the money to pay him. But later in the day, Justin said he would pay the man temporarily, which was an interim relief.

Went out again in a spirit of escape. I woke too late for lunch, having slept badly. Bought a sandwich from the new Pret a Manger at the corner of the old market. It’s going to be a hideous week with the water-heater. Rang the little man again & still found the mobile ‘phone out of order, & only the machine at home.

Wednesday, August 31, 1994

Justin offered to pay, when he finally realised I hadn’t any money. I thought he hadn’t any money, but can provide £100 to pay the man, if he comes.

Roy rang back eventually to say that Rochelle S. was giving a party to which everyone was coming, which was only specified as being the heads of two or three TV companies, & would Justin like to collect the coats? Imagine. Well, he would, but when I rang back Rochelle had got someone else.

Darling S’s secretary rang to say he would be at the BBC on Friday, & could come round at 11.30 for an early lunch. She said he would ring me himself & I told her to tell him not to bother. I’m sure he was thinking of the Albert Finney incident!

Had rest of the liver tonight, so delicious. Chilly.

Thursday, September 1, 1994

Justin gave me the £100 pounds today, & I rang a different firm who said they could come tomorrow.

Hazel rang. Interesting. Geoffrey was away at a funeral in Cumbria. So she rang for a long chat, partly to put off writing, – she’s got to pg 50 & killed off Lalla – but obviously partly because she misses a good deal with G. & feels freer to talk to me in a way I suppose she doesn’t talk to him, & also not when he is there. Not one of my better sentences. There is certainly some dissatisfaction there. I love our chats, within their limits.

Friday, September 2, 1994

So S. came to lunch! He was an hour late this time & stayed for two hours, so I suppose he’s less successful. He was looking much better & less tired, his hair now quite grey, shortish, & like a well-powdered head of, say, 1790 something.

He produced a monster bottle of Gordon’s, & the three books I want to read most, the book about Denholm Elliott by his wife, the new biography of William Archer, and the re-done Lytton Strachey by rather dreary Holroyd. Dear generous soul, because he knows that will give me most pleasure.

For the first time for ages, he mentioned no future plans, there was little or none of that Niagara of ideas & projects. In fact, when I asked him where he’d be in the next few weeks, so that I could chat, he said a bit wistfully, ‘here actually’. He told me that the young stage manager is back with the company; now that probably is the best thing, but he is obviously still numb with shock, claiming not to have felt it yet. He’s been comforting the parents. Well, it’ll only hit him worse later. It also seems that he might easily have been sacked the week before. I am not clear as to his exact position, as they have split up the jobs backstage, so that more people can be employed who have less to do.

Anyway there is a walkway in the factory scene, about fifteen feet up, leading across the stage to a staircase leading to floor level. A ten-foot section at the top of the stairs, connecting it to the walkway, was inadvertently left out. This was his responsibility, so he stationed someone at the foot of the stairs to warn people. An actress made a running entrance along the walkway, fell through the hole & broke her leg. An eminently sack-able offence, but now of course they can’t. The show is doing very well, thank God, & he wants me to see it at Woking.

He told me about his visit to the U.S. It wasn’t in New York, it was L.A. He saw young vice- presidents from Harvard & Yale, very de haut en bas about the business, probably because they know the turnover of vice presidents. About five minutes. They showed him Stephen Spielberg’s private suite, saying kindly, ‘Stephen is a child. That’s why his films are so successful with the huge mentally retarded audience.’ It’s so difficult to remember that there are people like this in the U.S. as well.

He also of course, saw casting directors, including Marian Docherty. It seems she is the doyenne of casting directors, has been at Warner’s since before the war, has always worn the same clothes etc etc. – I may be making all this up. He reminded me that he burst over there ten years ago on the Amadeus wave. I can just imagine him overwhelming them with wonderful conversation packed with references to books they’d never read & music they’ve never heard on the back of a performance they hadn’t seen in a play whose title they couldn’t pronounce.

He came on Marian Docherty rather late on. She listened for a little while, then lent over the desk gripped his wrist & said ‘Simon go home’. Excellent advice.

This time he rang up, she remembered him & asked him to lunch, almost unprecedented, it seems. I wonder if anything will come of it. She is powerful, I suppose. Her ‘old Hollywood’ status is rather confirmed by this little exchange. Waiter: Half a glass of wine? And you want it free? M.D.: Yes Waiter: Jack Warner will spin round in his grave. M.D. ‘He can do with the exercise.’

I can’t now remember who said, or when, that that big fat Price woman in La Fanciulla del West, at 62 was really Granny Get Your Gun.

We talked of Denholm E., with whom I worked, too. The Last time I saw him was in Marks & Spencer’s in Oxford St., when he said, with his own very special brand of sleaze, ‘I always come here for my underwear.’ S. of course had quite a time with him on location for ‘A Room With a View’. It seems his first sexual encounter with a man, despite four years in a prisoner of war camp, was with Noel. In about 1946 or 7, when he was starting to make an impression as a good- looking juvenile he was asked to a party by N. When he got there he found he was alone with N., who had asked him half an hour early. He was offered a drink, & then N. said, ‘would it be witty if I sucked you off?’ And did so. Now I quite believe this, but I find I don’t quite believe that it was his first man.

But I was beguiled by D.E.’s quiet pride in saying, in that dirty drawl, ‘I have my rectum under such control, that I really can suck the last drop put of a man’s penis’. On the doorstep S. made a funny adjective out of Thespis, but I’ve forgotten it & its context.

The water-heater man came at the time he said, not the funny little one, his mobile ‘phone turned out to have been out of order, & I couldn’t wait any longer. A sour man turned up. A new part is needed, so it means another weekend without hot water. And Justin has Spencer & Dante coming to stay. Ah well, £46 & £50 later.

Roy Castle died. I loathed watching or listening to him, – oh, that terrible quack of Lancashire insecurity, that embarrassing like-me, like-me feverishness. He claimed his lung cancer came from singing & playing in smoke-filled clubs, as he was a non-smoker I think it’s more likely it came from the tension with which he did his work & such idiocies as tap dancing for 23 hours on end to break a record of no interest to anyone.

Saturday, September 3, 1994

Beatrice & Dante arrived a bit early. Met them briefly, both limp, Beatrice fair & Dante dark, with glasses & moustache. Had my lunch on a tray in here, as less irritating for me, I mean. The remains of yesterday’s salad Niçoise, which was much nicer than I expected.

Oh, I forgot to record that S. was so funny about lunch. I suppose from some obscure impulse derived from Mary L’s sour remark about omelettes, I decided on something different. S. was outraged & felt the foundations of the world were slipping away. So I gave him a five herbs as well as the salad. Basil, mint parsley & chervil. A success.

Decided to go & see When a Man Loves a Woman, the new Meg Ryan film, at Baker St. Found they were going out as well, so shrank behind the front door. This was about 2.15. The tube was hideous with children & lethargic tourists. Got as far as Baker St, & came back again, did some shopping, & had a quiet evening. B & D have seldom been to London, Justin had asked me what they could do, they set out for Soho, twenty five & on the town. So what was my stupefaction, when I walked in with some bedclothes, without knocking and of course, as it was only ten thirty, to find B & D in bed. Justin was having some cornflakes, which he does five times a day, & said, ‘Dante got upset over dinner because Spencer & I were talking about school & Dante felt shut out’. Pathetic limp creatures, is that all they got out of London?

Watched a film, Presumed Guilty. A young actor called Brendan Fraser, very moving & truthful in it.

Sunday, September 4, 1994

All my worries came at me in waves. I have to fight them back & sometimes manage it. The new books are a help. Denholm Elliott by his wife, is not, of course, a good book, but has some interesting things in it to someone of my age. I laughed aloud at a line from one of his movies. Set in the colonies somewhere, he is trying to teach the natives to play rugger. ‘The trouble is, they will hang on to the ball for far too long… weeks sometimes.’

A documentary about unmarried mothers only set me wondering which of the babies would mock me when I’m eighty -five. Happily, I hope two of them were girls. What stupid cow’s all three mothers were!

At eleven off to help Janet with her front garden. I hoped my knees would hold out & they just did. Janet has a lavish hand with lunch. Carrot & orange soup, a platter of beef & ham, & a large dish of mussels, prawns & scallops, a green salad, a tomato & onion salad, three side dishes of veg in a cream dressing, Pasta shells in a spicy dressing, radishes. Then a huge bowl of raspberries, blueberries & blackberries & cream, then four sorts of cheese, brie, smoked? , goats & cheddar.

Caught second of frightful born-again Christian hymn, the modern equivalent of a Moody & Sankey tune, & words which contained three interesting lines, ‘Of the glory of the Lord’, ‘As the waters cover the sea’.

It is a pleasant thought that Moody & Sankey have vanished into the empyrean, mind-blowing, indeed mind-washing vulgarity.

Monday, September 5, 1994

The gas firm rang to confirm their early p.m. call, & he came! He arrived at 3:30-ish, & took about half an hour. I had expected £50 – it was £77. I had the balance of Justin £100, £54 more or less, less the shopping. £60 rent, & £64 of pension, which I draw on Mondays. I did a little more essential shopping, loo paper & so on, paid the man, & gave Justin as much as I had, £65, & told him to take the balance out of the rent, oh & four or five pounds he’d given me in small change for the man, both times. When I’d finished, I had forty-three pence till Friday.

Rang R. to put off dinner on Wednesday & got the machine mercifully.

It’s curious that I am not more depressed.

Tuesday, September 6, 1994

Did I say someone rang from the Art’s Educational for the room? It must be two years since I rang them, & I’ve never had a call before. Neil Patterson, a singer. Groan. Said he was coming round this p.m. ‘At about 3’ I said, ‘I’ll ring before,’ he said. It’s now 4.30, & nothing.

Later. He never rang. Well, they will inherit the world they create. I listened for the bell for two hours.

Wednesday, September 7, 1994.

A blank, my Lord.

Thursday, September 8, 1994

Bad night, didn’t get to sleep till three forty five, so decided to spend the day unshaven, in my new dressing gown, a treat I have only given myself – how many times? – A measurable number in my life, – twenty times at the most, if that.

That poor little plump singer, Michael Ball, is – Welsh. That explains his short legs, the going to fat so early, & that ineluctable river of coarseness that runs through everything he does.

Justin was out all day, for which I was glad – I have a residue of great irritation with him because of his lack of consideration & depressing self-indulgence. As a trivial example, I must sometime charts the great net curtain tussle.

R. got here with Zoe, & Flash – at almost six thirty. They brought him in the new tank with a black plastic top, a teeny bit suburban, straight from the background of a documentary about a juvenile delinquent’s parents in their bungalow in Leicester. I think he is a bit bigger. So sweet. They brought a cardboard box with the end of their larder before they go away, a bunch of bananas, a Covent Garden vichyssoise, & of course, a present of Gordon’s & tonic. They had a little of it, & drove off to their trip to Dubai tomorrow.

I have now finished the rewritten L. Strachey. It is certainly better because it is shorter. Certain little aperçu that caught me. L.S. couldn’t speak French well enough to talk to his brother-in-law in 1905 when he was 25. In 1911, he wrote Landmarks in French literature. Perhaps he could always read it well but we are not told so, in so many words.

Despite being not unexpectedly, very unhappy at school, Abbottsholme?, he went to more than one Old Boys dinner at Camb. & met his headmaster after his fame. Oh, he played Tilburina at school.

He had a ‘serious’ illness. He lay in bed on a strong thinning diet, a bottle of claret lasting him two days. His weight went from nine to eleven stone. Very serious.

Much better tho’ the book is, & as well done as you expect, & with much fascinating new material, I cannot be convinced that L.S. is a figure considerablde enough to warrant this treatment. And Carrington… nobody seems to find the quite repellent person but I do. I suppose she must have had some charm in real life, but I’m sure I would see the octopus arms of a devious insecure mischief-maker, & run a mile. Another of the ‘either are you marry them or never see them again’. She was almost entirely destructive – how fortunate she destroyed herself before she could ruin any more people’s lives. The only number of the group I feel I know anything at all direct about, from seeing her interviewed on TV – if that is direct! & reading her diaries & reviews as they came out now is Frances Partridge. She seems now, & then in the biography, quite admirable. So M.H.’s choice of adjectives & adverbs to describe her is significant. ‘Both Lytton & Carrington saw her as a potential danger to their way of life – for all her excellent qualities, she was not really the type of person: too unrealistically straightforward & remorselessly well-balanced.’ I hope he means to imply that they were realistically devious & relentlessly unstable, but he doesn’t say so. Incidentally although the book is sexually frank, in language & so on, an innocent person, if such a one still exists, could go through the book & not know that L.S. slept with his many lovers. It’s not said.

I noticed a few bad errors. One particularly, was of a seriousness I haven’t come across before. Footnotes 9 & 10 were marked in the text in chap viii, but not in the notes. An asterisk was attached to the wrong quote & so on. Wrote to M. Holroyd to say so. Opened the William Archer to find the first photograph wrongly captioned….

By the way, most usefully he gives the current value of money for any sum he mentions. £2000 or £3000 = £55,000 now, for instance. I wish I could get a little booklet of rates through the ages.

Friday, September 9, 1994 I asked R. to find out what was cheap & what was expensive in Dubai.’ ‘Oil & gold’ he said. ‘Cheap?’ ‘Yes’. ‘Bring me back some of both’.

Do they grow much around there or is it all desert? is the fish delicious & unusual? What is local & delicious? We also talked about their bill. There seems to be no limit given to them, so what limit would they give to themselves? I think they were leaving that to their sense of the natural fitness of things. Yes, champagne & expensive things on the menu, within their own relaxed limits. Of course, I was fascinated by what bill you could put in under such circumstances. That a big corporation would pay without questioning it. I was, for instance, reminded of that tale of David Monico’s, was it? Of the fur dept at Harrods where a friend of his took a temporary job, & on her first day, sold a mink jacket for £3,500 to a customer who said, ‘put it on my account’. The poor girl was so stunned by the price that she forgot to take the customers name. (The customer didn’t take the jacket with her, so there was no question of fraud.) The main saleswoman said, ‘don’t worry we’ve only got about seventy customers who would buy something at this price in this way. I’ll put the £3500 on all seventy bills & we’ll find out which is the right one.’ All but seven paid the account without querying it.

Now its years ago, & all the figures are probably wrong, but the point is made.

I also question why the sales woman hadn’t done this before…nevertheless, I’m sure that such accounts are paid.

An author called James Clavell died. I had never heard his name until I saw a whole half page obituary in the Independent. Another of those authors whom, obviously many millions of readers – he was a multi millionaire, – couldn’t put down, & I couldn’t pick up.

I thought just now of that Oxford manner years ago – the immediate attempt to disconcert you with the opening remark. Very successful against such as me, but oh! how much they miss. Just as S. does. Oh, & the SD radio seems to have sunk without a trace, and Julian never rang. I’ve only just thought of it. Well, I must be thankful for small mercies.

Saturday, September 10, 1994

Stayed in all day with my £2.46. Roy rang & said what was I doing tomorrow, & would it be nice to go mushrooming in Windsor Great Park, ‘I’ve got some loin of pork for lunch’. I said, a little hesitantly, that I always went mushrooming with K. & Sharron. He said he’d ring K & did, & K. was helping Sharron with the studio, the only day they had freely, so …. but they talked of the place we’d been to before. So Roy said, ‘9.30’. So I gulped, & said, ‘right, 9.30.’ He said he hadn’t seen me for a fortnight, but it’s actually three weeks since our night to 2.15. He never fails in giving himself, or not, if he can’t. I’m sure he dreads, as I do, having to talk about money again.

Rang Mary L. She had been to St. J., & said Imogen Stubbs was ‘wonderful – the best I’ve seen’. And, of course, then it turned out there was a touching likeness ‘in movement & figure’ to Esther McCracken. ‘I remember her running on at Newcastle – her home town – on the tour, in her Wren’s white shirt & navy blue skirt, looking about fifteen….’ Quiet weekend again, poor darling. And even she said it could have been cut more. It was already cut.

If you have a brain there is not a word too many. D. would be shocked.

M. Had never heard Peter Jeffery’s name before. Well. A bit sad, for someone with real devotion to the theatre. Perhaps not real enough.

Sunday, September 11, 1994

I got up at 8:30 to get to Roy’s. As I went down to get the covered basket, I heard an ominous noise from the bathroom. The water heater had gone wrong again, with the same noise. I felt depressed into the floor, but had to put it behind me. At least I could escape for a few hours. Roy was up & dressed. Marian staggered out in blue & white striped pyjamas, rather hung over, but the unexpected was the baby crawling towards the front door. They are already at the point of watching continuously, constantly removing things of all kinds from her fingers, feet & mouth, pushing the furniture together to get rid of dangerous spaces, high shelves are crowded. I suddenly saw that these years of endless & endless irritating trouble, are enough in themselves, without any other element, to make parents resentful of ingratitude.

We set off for Richmond, & drove round for a bit, & finally did stop to look at the map. Even Roy hadn’t looked it up beforehand. He drives well, & says his hand is no disadvantage, except for some handbrakes that have a nob to press on the top, & that thumb is a bit weak. Of course, there’s a great stretch of hideous rough-stone, taken for granted by everyone but me, the car- park. I think I rather amazed R. by saying I couldn’t remember when I was last in a car, & I really can’t. We walked across some bracken, strewn turf, nibbled very short, by the deer, I suppose, walked round a sizeable copse –Sidmonth Wood, I should have said, which R. said we could get into, he thought, but we walked round it about half a mile, to find seemingly no end to a very high fence, I take it, against deer.

So we struck off across the bracken & turf, under a perfectly clear sky, & hot sun. There was another wood ahead which I found later was called Queen Elizabeth’s plantation. From the size of the beech & birch & oaks, it must have been planted (or possibly planted up, for some of the oaks were twenty feet round & split) for the ‘37 coronation. Thick thick leaf-mould small little shafts of sunlight, little undergrowth, no edible fungi.

We found about fifteen different sorts. Some are obvious, like puffballs, and those small caramel colour ones whose name I find I forget each time. But others, especially two with white gills & stem, and a decidedly blue purple cap, looked, one-way, & another, like nothing in the books. I think another is Amanita pantherina. Ah well, it was so lovely walking in the woods, the smell of the leaf mould, lots of squirrels and finally, between us & The Ride with two riders as an absurdly appropriate backcloth, two deer. They were only about twenty yards away. How delicate they are! How small their heads, how exquisite the angle of the antlers! So that’s how tiaras were thought of.

About twelve we got back to the car. We’d seen five or six people in the two hours, five of the six with white West Highland terriers. But, of course, round the cars, were the gathering hordes of the having too long a drink before a hideously late Sunday lunch brigade, nervous if they move too far from hot metal.

Roy rang Marian to get her to put the pork in the oven: & was instructed to get a pudding of some kind from Maison Blanc. We looked for it, & of course it’s that elaborate cake shop just by Richmond St. I wanted something chocolatey, but as a mere gueast I had to be satisfied with a tarte au citron, & very nice it was. He also bought three-miniature quiche, to stem the pangs of hunger while the joint cooked. Broad beans, carrots, courgette, gravy; a really good solid lunch, served just after one!

I had about twenty minutes of Ella dandling & buzzing in her ear etc. etc. They are as good as any two people could be not being ‘silly’ about their baby, but, of course, they are, & I love them for it. But, of course, I can only stand so much of it, & happily again, I had just enough. Marian seemed to see that the child responded specially to me – I don’t think so. But I have to say that she does seem to be an unusually noticing & expressive baby for eleven months. Her murmurings & chirruping’s, seem to be trying for rational expression, unlike many grown-ups.

The Last night of the Proms, the 100th season. The soloist was a man this year, a Welsh man, so, of course, he came on in a Welsh rugby shirt, & sang the last verse in Welsh. Or was it the last verse of God Save the Queen? He threw the rugger ball into the audience.

More & more & yet more informality. The poor little things don’t see where it leads, or that it’s parasitic.

Monday, September 12 1994

Rang the gas people. Puzzled by it going wrong, – they didn’t know my water-heater. Still, they’re coming tomorrow with, I hope, the new part.

Last night I was going to tape Edward Scissorhands. Just as I was about to……Justin asked me to tape the Victoria Wood play. I wonder why I did. I must remember with the new one, to be a little less permissive.

I have made a list, I don’t think I’d better be so generous in future.

Later he came in & said he was going to Harrow on The Hill. ‘I always go there to think’. Well, I hope he does think – I am afraid he is a feeble drifter, – at the moment I can’t see anything else. The self-indulgence is awful. He’s going to live with Liam and his sugar daddy for a bit. Well, there you are.

Tuesday, September 13, 1994

A day packed with boredom & incident. Thank God the water heater people said 3 – 5, so that it didn’t consume the entire day waiting, because, of course, they didn’t come. But possible lodgers did. At lunchtime, ‘Antonio’ rang. He was at Barons Court, & was round in minutes. Tall, dark, v. Italian looking, an English student. I’m glad he’s studying English, because his command of it would have made life a strain. Then David Wyatt from Eastcote, ‘I’m a hairdresser,’ he said he’d come round at 5:30. So there I sat, prised on an uneasy shelf of worry. If the gas heater man came, I had £40. I know it’s under guarantee, but still he said ominously, it would be free if it was the part they replaced which had gone wrong. But if not…

In the end, he didn’t come at all, which, despite the inconvenience, was a bit of a relief. Telephone had begun to ring with prospective lodgers. One, with a very strong Italian accent was at Barons Court & came straight round about three. Tall, brown, typically Italian, & very broken English. Asked if he could have his girlfriend with him. When we’d settled that he only meant at weekends or whatever, I said the bed was rather narrow. He gleamed the little smile of a man who does not intend to spend much time testing the width of the bed. He would be better than some, so I took his number. Then a David Wyatt rang ‘I’m a hairdresser’. His first question was ‘is it clean & tidy? After I put the ‘phone down, I thought ‘no’ because of course, it isn’t either. He arrived at five, half an hour early. I nearly showed him the boiler. He looked athletic, hard, & a cropped head, and a cynical disillusioned eye. I could see him going out in the evening all in leather & going back to a minimalist obsessively ‘clean & tidy’ room. Once in the army, perhaps. Downstairs on our way out, he said, ‘this place has got a lot of atmosphere’. ‘well, it’s got a lot of pictures.’ It reminded me of the yuppie accountant & solicitor couple who bought Manchurian Rd., saying, ‘it has such atmosphere’. And I thought, ‘yes & I’m taking it all with me’. Then a quiet voice, ‘I’m working in the Kings Rd. I have my break between five & seven. He came about 630, having first rung up to say he’d be half an hour later, because he got stuck in a taxi on his way home to change. Promising. Slight, smiling, his work is furniture making. He straightaway produced some transparencies to show me some quite interesting chairs & a table.

I think he meant it as a sort of reference, just as, later on, he mentioned in passing that his parents were in the diplomatic & stationed in Canada. I was delighted when he took the room, and gave me £60 rent in advance. I had a fantasy this might happen to give me more to cope with the water-heater. My fantasies usually becomes a nightmare, but this time I did have luck, To get what seems a good lodger out of a choice of only three.

Wednesday, September 14, 1994

The water-heater people though again they said they would, didn’t come. I would have been in anyway, as I have the squitters. Went about four times this morning – how it bursts out – & had gripey pains as usual. Rather longed for Kaolin & Morphine mixture to soothe, rather than control. Found the bottle in the bathroom cupboard had passed its sell by date, Aug. 93. This is proved to my satisfaction to have been bought in ‘91 & still more than half full. So I haven’t had a tummy bug for three years. Not bad.

Pulled on some clothes over my pyjamas & got some fresh at the chemist, took it, & have stayed in bed all day.

But the best thing of all, – I was too tight & tired last night – K. rang at last & I felt that life was all right after all. Tuesday? And did I want to come to dinner with Ernie & Marjorie on Friday? No, I thought you wouldn’t. I said I’d come if it would help. But it wouldn’t really, just make it go on longer & be more expensive.

There is no one like him.

Thursday, September 15, 1994 Awful day. Only a call from him, makes it possible for me to sleep.

Friday, September 16, 1994

Saturday, September 17, 1994

Sunday, September 18, 1994

Yes, Thursday was a bad day.

I was already low from squitters & seeing lodgers, when eventually the water heater man came, he charged me £47 to tell me that the thing couldn’t be repaired. I cried in his face from tiredness & repeated blows. He was the same rather cynical flat creature who came the first time. While I cried, my actors other self saw I had disconcerted him. He was obliged for a moment to think of someone else, which I felt was an unusual sensation for him.

But my despair was grey & heavy. It seemed the last straw in both money & inconvenience, & I sat for some hours struggling to get back to some sort of equilibrium. The only little thread of hope came to me from Sharron, who rang from her new studio to say she wanted to see me next week, & I was actually talking to her when the wretched man tapped at the door to give me the news. I rang her back, & she got the full blast. She was wonderfully comforting, said, ‘you have a good cry & I’ll see you next week’. ‘Don’t tell him’.

But of course she did & of course he rang. ‘We’ll get a new one put in,’ & there was that something in his voice that quite overturned me.

I didn’t sleep long. Between quarter to two & half past six I went nine times, bursts of brown water. Not particularly explosive, but it always hits quite high up. I suppose that’s the way ones arsehole points, & it’s the weight of a turd that carries it down.

Naturally on Friday, I felt like a squeezed out flannel & stayed in bed all day. I felt chilly as well, & the new dressing gown was a great comfort. As far and I can tell Justin has done nothing towards his move. ‘I bet it will be inconvenient in some way’, I said to myself, & it was. At least he completely cleared the room, but at the expense of books under the Shakespeare & the movie cabinet, a wodge more clothes in the wardrobe, the word-processor somewhere & so on – in this full flat. He also left, as they always do, nearly a whole loaf of bread, a pot of Stork, four oranges, a quarter of Gold Blend, & an almost full box of Weetabix. He made five journeys to Blackheath, the last about 7.30, when it turned out he was only staying there a fortnight. Poor silly little sod, all that effort & stuff, for a fortnight. Oh & to three feet high piles of magazines in my bedroom! Read them, or some of them, in bed, & found them pretty dull. He kept quite a few Time Outs…. He’s a drifter.

But the main delightful thing I experienced – how clumsy – was freedom. Just for twenty-four hours I could live my own life. One result was that I did more housework in one day than I’ve done for weeks. Yesterday I would have cleaned the dining room, but Justin was, as usual, sitting at the table with bread & jam. (It was always bread or jam, or cornflakes.) The feeling is exhilarating, even with my tummy upset. It’s still on, though not painful any more. Have I said about my bout thirty years ago, fourteen shits in a morning & then two shows, with not a squirt. And it was a talk show, singing & dancing regardless.

So, today, Sunday, got the book room ready, & thought how lovely it would be, one day to have it to myself again. If only K. knew how I HATE having a lodger! Must ring DS on Monday, for his query.

Monday, September 19, 1994

It seems that one in four people in this country is a child. I suppose I should be grateful I miss so many of them.

Another dreary wet cold day. Rang DS, but I don’t think a grant will be possible, a loan might be but I couldn’t afford that. K. rang anyway, & we had a good talk about that & the water-heater. He’d talked to his plumbers, & they said they’d put it in there for nothing, but, if they had to come here, it could be another hundred! So he asked me to ring round here & get some quotations. And what a different range! One said sharply, ‘£950 plus VAT’, as the heater is about £300….. Another £500, another £300, £170 labour; another £525 incl. & so on. I think the best was £35 an hour, to put in a heater we’d already bought.

So, after that bout (is that how you spell it? It looks wrong…) of ‘phoning, I settled down to wait for my new lodger. Nowadays, to be sure to hear the bell I have to sit on the windows side edge of the bed. Even then I didn’t hear him ring Katrina’s bell. So that when my bell did ring, quite loudly, the front door was locked. There was some luggage in the hall. I opened the door & there he was. Perhaps he shut the front door to start again, out of tact. He hadn’t much luggage, two smallish holdalls and a smallish kitbag. He seems affirmative. I think he may be too helpful….! Sure to be some disadvantage. However he gave me his working times & they were: Tues. 10 – 5. Wed. 10 – 11. Thurs. 10 – 5. Fri. 9 – 5. Sat. Free. Sun. 10 – 5. He did some primitive cooking, as far as I could see, after one or two passing-through glances, some sliced boiled potatoes, & an unopened tin of baked beans. He’d washed up the two baking- tins in cold water, & later, I found that he piled all the loose carrier bags in the corner by the oven into one. Hm. Later he came & said he was going to bed & didn’t want any phone calls. It was 9.0. Hm. Hm. Well, of course, I don’t know what he’s been going through lately – he did look a bit hollow eyed. Oh, & his father rang yesterday, sounding like professor Joad. And it isn’t Canada, it’s Calcutta. So that’s all right.

There is a painter called Herbert Schmalz. Is that its origin…

Tuesday, September 20, 1994

Rang K. He was stroppy & attacking as usual when trying to get me going. Opened dreaded tax letter & found it was just the change of address letter. How he would despise me! But then he hasn’t lived my life.

I had nothing special to face at last, after my chat with K. except ring my little man tomorrow at 9 for his quote. So I thought, after a week’s illness & nastiness, I’d go to the pictures. ‘Dazed & Confused’ at The Metro. An ‘art movie’, repellent term, which, as usual reveals far more by implication of the bankrupt state of America’s civilization, then even the ‘art’ director probably intended. Fairly tedious as well.

Two pork chops & a proper dinner altogether, as I bought two (reduced) punnets of raspberries – oh that smell, I expect they’re Scots.

Oh & John M. had said he’d got a friend coming to stay on Saturday. The friend, who turned out to be male, Austrian & called Flo, cant come. Couldn’t tell why.

The three-tier entry for Fri. Sat. Sun. leaves out something. I was still starving & light headed.

On Saturday morning, trying to get back to normal, I rang Roy & Marian to thank them for Sunday. I told him about the water-heater, & he said immediately, ‘order it, get it put in, & send me the bill’. Rang him tonight, because he might be away tomorrow. He wrote & sent a cheque for £400.

Later. The little creature seems of so settled & quiet a habit that even after one night here, I am worried that he’s not in at 12:15. The note about Flo is still on the mat. But of course I know nothing of him. And equally, of course, my mother’s wretched imagination has been dashing ahead dealing with his suicide in my book room after his early night last night. I even thought I’ll wait till the morning…..

Wednesday, September 21, 1994

Oh, my squitters. The Kaoline & Morphine had helped every now & then, but it kept coming back, with six or seven bursts, morning or evening, till Monday – nearly a week. Then I got some dear old Collis Browne’s, £3.35 as opposed to £1.15 for same amount. Chewed three tablets & haven’t heard another word. Almost worth squitters & no hot water to have, so many calls & talks & arranging’s & snapping’s of heads off with him.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 129

September 21st 1994 – November 5th 1994

Wednesday September 21, 1994 (continued)

Of course, the lodger came back in the tamest way, after I’d gone to sleep, having done an unexpected 10 – 11 shift, & has another today.

Realised dear Tim was back & had a lovely long talk about nine thirty. He is better, as witness getting drunk at a wedding & making a pass at girl ‘flirting as Mairead used to flirt’.

Oh, & the first of the water heater men said he’d be here at five, & got here at ten to seven. He seemed amiable & made no difficulties.

Oh, & I told Tim about Justin sitting in the garden reading the paper six hours at a time, ‘which is not right at 24’. ‘No, – perfectly all right at 32’.

Rather ridiculous World War I play, in huge warehouse in Glasgow. Real trenches, real gardens, real soldiers, but, such a disappointment, no real deaths, all master minded, if that is the term, by that singularly uninspired creature, Bill Bryden.

I see that Month in the Country is going to B’way. Perhaps at last the US will appreciate Helen Mirren. Who said of the Glasgow affair, ‘it’s very theatrical but it’s not dramatic’?

Again the new lodger worked dawn till dusk. I think he’s the sort who can work full out to get his workshop.

Thursday, September 22, 1994

A little warmer. The cheque arrived from Roy, rather trustingly with no payee’s name. Still, it wasn’t stolen. I made it out to K. & asked him to pay my phone bill.

Roy’s note said ‘if I don’t come out well in your diaries after this – it’s over’! In the p.m. to see The Last Seduction except that when I got to Baker St., as quite often lately, I suddenly turned aside, & came back home. That sometimes happens now…

On the way back, lo! Justin got into my carriage at Green Park, – odds? – with his brother Steve. Bright talk. Steve had arrived at Euston, & they were going to have a coffee at… somewhere in Earls Court. Poor Steve seems to be determinedly anti-metropolitan, & Justin, I take it, is taking him somewhere simpatico to get my telephone money out of him, among, no doubt, many other things. I was pleasantly reminded of what I’ve escaped.

The kitchen is completely free of monster packets of everything and childish demands for recognition, & endless little platefuls of sugary comfort cornflakes. I’m glad he’s gone, & that I rid of that limp weight of nothing, either in the garden or in front of the television.

Friday, September 23, 1994

I have now finished the William Archer biography. It’s by Peter Whitebrook, a journalist on the Scotsman, & is, I think, his first book. It’s a great deal better than I expected, & a great deal better than Archer might have expected, in view of his comparative obscurity. It covers the period I know best, without any major factual errors. I have, & have read, all Archer’s theatre books, & the judgement of the author is equally free of errors. There is even a lightness of touch, as any life with more than a touch of Shaw must have. My only complaint is the novice’s mistake of crying up his subject by faintly denigrating those around him. But it’s a literary weakness mainly. What a lovely man Archer was, & how lucky such a major figure as Shaw was to have such a brave and true friend.

I’d forgotten that S. wrote to him after the success of ‘The Green Goddess’. ‘I’m greatly pleased by your success. It proves that I was quite right all along… you can now go ahead with The Original Widowers House…’

I was struck by how much he travelled, & how uselessly & uncomfortably so much of the time. Even in his time, & he died in 1924, he went back to Havana & found it ‘ruined’ by commercialisation. They never seem to realise that they have contributed to it. So often he was, by my standards, tortured by the hotels & the noise & the people. What a curse travel is!

So far John M. has only been in one evening. The others he’s got in after I’ve been in bed. Wonderful.

At twelve today the second water heater plumber came along, only it was eleven thirty. He was younger, about K’s age, & tall & thin. Seemed honest, said a fan wouldn’t fit on the wall. But a balanced flue heater would only cost £50 more, so… He seemed honest, positive & polite.

In the p.m. at last, to see the new film noir, The Last Seduction. To my great surprise it was a little film, more or less perfect in every detail & performance & direction. The star – what’s her name? Lisa Fiorentino or some such, strode through it on her terrific legs with complete command.

Where has she been – television? Somewhere to dominate, from inside, as she does. Perfectly cast all round. It went like a flash – unusual these days. The Metro, one of my three or four favourite cinemas, has a faint air of disintegration about it – I hope I’m wrong. But there are, this time no comprehensive blow up notices in the frames in the foyer, & sometimes when I go on a Friday afternoon to the first or second performance of a new film, of, after all, of enough interest to interest me, – there are, with that eager appetite, out of Londoners, perhaps fifteen or sixteen beside me. Of course, I do not expect the lethargic wandering tourists to come to a new film. They do not even look up at the buildings, but loiter from one souvenir shop to the next, & and then back to their guide & their bus.

Saturday, September 24, 1994

Justin promised me the telephone money ‘at latest’ by Wednesday. He rang on Tuesday to say that he couldn’t get it by Wed – ‘it was more honest’ to tell me. I don’t see how he produced the last week’s rent, when he said he had only £40 left, unless he went to 7. Sydney Street. In which case, why doesn’t he go again? A lot of clothes & books here still. I wonder if he’ll pick them up. I suppose he didn’t get much, if any, money out of Steve last week, & I don’t blame Steve at all – he should be left to sink or swim. How squalid that I’m going to have to ring him up & dun him.

Yes, it’s nice he’s gone; it’s nice not to have him pushing for every inch & doing nothing with those inches. He made me move all those scripts from the shelves opposite the door, & and then put out a few CDs – with nothing to play them on & a few, apparently empty files. He then erected a six foot high section of green shelves, in front of & completely preventing access to, my theatre history shelves, & put a few piles of old magazines on, all of which he has left behind & may never pick up. While he was here, he led a very trivial life, arranging the room too write, and never writing, & so on & so on. His completely complacent self-indulgence leads to…. a tart.

Sunday, September 25, 1994

On that curious Paul Merton Palladium show, Tommy Cooper burlesqued Frankie Vaughan. Sublime.

John Morey has no bank a/c, only a P.O a/c, but is opening a bank a/c tomorrow. Odd. Where has he been? It seems his father is deputy High Commissioner in Calcutta. His previous post was in Mongolia. It seems all the Embassies & staff, though with separate quarters, were all in the same compound. They only saw each other. They couldn’t go out without guards etc. Shopping only thro’ the bag, I suppose.

Monday, September 26, 1994

Day transformed by K ringing & suddenly coming to dinner. He got the last tube as usual, so will write tomorrow.

Tuesday, September 27, 1994

So he turned up at about eight – he said he’d be a bit late, & bring something for dinner. I only had two smallish pork chops. He brought some turkey breast slices & a bottle of Patronne red wine. I’m amused that he expects Gin & Whiskey…

He ate his chop & his turkey & about a pound & a half of potatoes. Halfway through, I said I’ve grown tomatoes in the dish. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He cuts one in half, chewed it and said, ‘oh, but I don’t like tomatoes.’ It’s the artlessness….

So that was all right, & the five weeks were nothing. I must never doubt for a moment.

We talked of the water heater. He wondered how we’d pay Roy back, so I had to persuade him it was a gift. I think he was a little bit miffed by the gift – very natural.

We talked of S. as usual. He hasn’t heard from him either. He sent him a fax concerning a girl, obviously quite high-powered – I forget the details – at raising money for films through some corporation or other. He hasn’t heard anything. Hm.

The Channel 4 logo is still on the cards, but nothing yet. More hm. He’s working with dear Stan Loubiere – partly on Peter Sinfield’s songs, which is still aren’t finished, & Pete S is back in Ibiza. Still more hm.

He told me about his parents visit. They spent most of a day in Harrods. It seems tea is now £9.45 a head. So K. didn’t want anything to eat, so said to the Gurkha like waiter, ‘bring a pot of tea & three cups.’ There then ensued a long continuing & determined skirmish between the Gurkha & K’s stubbornness. He won him round! Fairly hellish two days with parents, – boring is the word he uses now.

I cannot decide why he almost never mentions Sharron unprompted, & if so, what it means or doesn’t mean. I do hope we can get a heater settled soon.

An announcer on TV pronounced skeletal – ‘skelétal’. Again hm.

He rang this morning – to say shouldn’t he be ringing somebody about something? How contemptuous he’d be if I said something like that! How contemptuous he is! But as I haven’t had any quote from that firm, he had nobody to ring. ‘I’m going to tape the opening of ‘Look who’s Talking’. ‘Why?’ ‘I don’t think I’m going to answer that’. It’s a bit of his music, you see.

Wednesday, September 28, 1994

Rang R. & he was there! Exhausted, at 3.30, having got in at 9.30 a.m. flight 2.15 from Dubai. All wonderful, …. Well, I’ll see.

Rang K & said I hadn’t heard from big firm, though there was a registered letter they’d tried to deliver. Income tax? Heater firm? Water? K. had rung his little man, & had managed at last to leave a message on the machine.

Thursday September 29, 1994

Went to pick up the registered package, which turned out to be delightful – the new Alan Bennett diaries etc. From dear S. Exactly calculated to raise my poor old spirits. Golloped a lot of it at once, wildly funny & much else beside. Half a dozen references to D., all reasonable. I was hoping he might pay some tribute to her intelligence, rare anywhere, almost unknown among successful and pompous actresses. I expect he preferred Naughty Nora Nicholson, a much less special actress & person. Ah, well. It’s getting a bit late for a proper tribute to her unusual qualities & gifts – who is there to pay it?

Alan’s mother is as gifted at non-sequiturs as mine & D’s. Fathers do not indulge in them, it seems.

In the p.m. to take the script back to K. I forgot to remark on it on Monday. It’s a film script, set in a brothel in The Wild West, it is very low down, very downbeat, with very little relief of comedy or action. However, it is very well done, well written & especially convincing, as far as my ear can tell, as its by two English authors. The covering letter was rather determinedly highbrow in its suggestions for the music. ‘do you know the slow movement of that Stravinsky sonata that is very seldom played? That sort of thing… the troubles with the script are: Nothing for a star. Not all that much visual appeal as it stands. The danger that in most hands it would turn out as a piece of soft porn. It’s certainly not actor or director-proof.

But I advised him to stick with them one way or another, because they can write. Oh, & by the way, they’ll have to change the title, Fallen Angels.

Met Steve, his sound engineer briefly. I wish I could remember why he needs one.

Read him the bit about Alan B’s mother & T.S. Eliot. He did that all-out laugh with his whole self that I so love.

As I walked down the path, he said ‘you’re limping’. ‘No’. ‘Yes you are’. Are you all right? ‘I’m very touched by the concern, but I’m not limping.’ It’s made me laugh with love all the way to the tube. Ten min’s with him can set me up.

Friday, September 30, 1994

Rang Mary. L. who’d been to see When a Man Loves a Woman & thought it was very good. I am coming more & more to see how faulty her judgement is. Philadelphia was bad enough. She has the very opposite of an open mind. I suppose the certainty of a bit of a bigot attracted D. at first. And when I talked of the bit in Alan B. about Kenneth More & Getting On, she would scarcely hear a word about Alan or his side of it. Kenneth M. being an idol of hers. K.M. behaved very badly, quite in character, of course, & Alan’s mistake was in casting him at all. He writes of K.M. with much forbearance, which I’m sure K.M. did not extend to him. I’m afraid she exhibited what I can only describe as absurd & blinkered prejudice.

Watch The Missing prog. in case, as I usually do. It struck me this time, how all the missing young people, if they are not simple-minded or something, are always attractive rather than not. When they have been missing for three of four years, & are probably dead or on the game, this sheds a sinister light on the program.

In the p.m. to The Renoir to see new Spanish film, The Red Squirrel. It had good notices, ‘inventive’, ‘elegant’, ‘notable’. I can see, more & more often, no connection between the notices & the films. This one was of such crushing tedium that had it not run over the rush hour, I would have left after half an hour or so. So slight & thin. I wish it were the case that I couldn’t ‘follow it’, or that I couldn’t ‘get into it’. I easily preceded it, & just longed to get out of it.

Sunday, October 1, 1994

Not much to the day beyond going to the shops & back.

‘The capacity for feeling intensely’ first overtly identified for me, in Bennett’s Hilda Lessways, was naturally appropriated by me in identifying myself & my friends. I think not entirely without justification, when I think how often I have to say to new friends, about, for instance, their parents, ‘your perceptions include theirs’, ‘but theirs do not include yours’. It did not occur to me till lately, that that is a possible reason for attracting bullies, so that they can ‘plug-in’ to feeling better at a higher pitch then they could otherwise experience. They tease you mind, & they get a lift out of such vivid disgust. I certainly can account for Donald & Daddy in such terms, with the hindsight of old age.

Their superficiality has been painfully shown up by the years.

Leaflets put through door, headed STELLA Physic/Spiritualist, Root & Herb Worker. Palm, Tarot Card, Crystal Ball Readings. You have the questions I have the answers and solutions to all your problems. Are you troubled with Immigration, Business, Love, Health, Family Problems, or Bad Luck. I can & will help you. I will reunite the separated & Restore happiness. I have the power to remove and protect you from evil influences with Roots and Herbs of great strength & power. Spiritual cleansing, Baths, Home blessings, and personalized talismans available. Call today for satisfaction tomorrow. GUARANTEED RESULTS. 212, Old Brompton Road. Flat 3, earls Court. (3 mins walk from Earls Court tube.)

John Morey silent & out. Looks tired.

Sunday, October 2 1994

The Man Who Plays with Cars was out there while I was shaving at about a quarter to twelve. He has bought a small white car of some kind, which seems to be for the use of his eldest son –, & wife? – so that, I saw, the large red motorbike, with his son’s ‘L’ plates still on it, is obviously for sale. He showed it off to a father & son by demonstration, by dismantling it, & by a lot of talk, & later on, the production of a document or two. Now that is not extraordinary on the face of it; the really odd part, to someone like me, & my friends, is that, when I came back after lunch, some three quarters of an hour later, they were still chatting & inspecting & squatting & fingering & discussing. I don’t know whether they bought it or not. I had only two thoughts. I could see the nice young son of eighteen lying torn to shreds in the casualty unit. But more importantly, my only contribution to the discussion would have shortened it considerably – ‘Motorbikes should be banned’.

Today I finished my usual little re-run of Austen by reading Pride & Prejudice. I am so lucky to be able to do so in a single untroubled day. Why does no one say enough how moving the novels are, in their justice & balance.

How I love the fantasies of science pronouncements. If Dr. Something says, ‘I have made a lifelong study’ of whatever it is, oh, how sacred it is. A lifelong study by an idiot, never mind.

Monday, October 3, 1994

It’s 7.0 & K has not rung about the plumber. Oh dear & I did hope it would be over. It’s now 10.40 & he hasn’t rung. Even if the plumber can’t be got hold of…. It would be so lovely to have a bath after five weeks. I do find it more & more difficult to bear, & now the light over the oven & sink has gone, so now I am really back at the cottage, washing up with the kettle, a bowl & one candle not quite on the bowl…

Darling John was awarded a Japanese prize, of which I certainly have never heard before. The Premium Imperial (translation underneath in Japanese, did we know the Japanese new Latin?) The good thing about it is the prize itself, £97,000. Presented by Edward Heath, but you can’t have everything. I think of John saying ‘I think I shall be in debt to the income tax till I die now’. I am glad. He looks really old & shrunken but still himself.

Tuesday, October 4, 1994

Darling K. did ring. His ‘little man’ hadn’t rung, so what was the best offer? And he rang the young man I liked, & was the lowest price. It was so good of him, because when he rang back to say he’d spoken to him & liked the sound of him, he said, ‘now it’s up to you. You realise I’ll be out of circulation for the next fortnight’. There are two or three projects all come together – he told me what they were, but the words don’t mean anything to me, so I can’t remember them. I told him to leave the machine on, so that I can leave little messages or funny things that I could tell him. But I know he won’t & the fortnight is a sentence of silence, I never know quite why he can’t just ring for a chat. I suppose it disturbs his concentration – for a fortnight? – but anyway he doesn’t like chats much, I have to keep reminding myself.

Good gracious me, I was doing the washing-up & to my amazement John M. came in to introduce me to three friends… if only he knew how I hate that, at the end of dinner. Harriet is perfectly recognisable as the educated daughter of a mother who would have her daughter after Dorothy Sayers Harriet Vane. The other girl, more attractive, more wry – & of course, at one further remove – whose name I didn’t catch. And a good looking young man, who, I think, was called Christian, & who came in only for a minute or two, then John took him off, leaving me with the two girls. I showed off for a bit, which is my way of keeping people at bay. They seemed to like it, & I can just imagine how they’d describe me afterwards. ‘Odd old thing, washing-up by a candle, & talked a lot, seemed to have known a lot of well-known people, but really weird.’ Harriet looked at the books which is always a treat. ‘House like a museum’.

Later I saw the girls leave. Later still, I was deafened by the smell of curry cooking, of course with the kitchen door not shut. And some bedding had gone from the cupboard, so I suppose Christian stayed.

Wednesday, October 5, 1994

Reading a Patricia Wentworth with pleasure. Little love scene. Girl: there isn’t much to know…. Then it would bore you. Man: would it? If you take most of the things that really matter, they may be profound, but they are fundamentally simple. You don’t get tired of the sun, & the sky, & fresh air, & water, & bread. … You don’t get tired of what you need.’

Not bad for an ordinary detective story. Packed with misprints, the best being the frequent spelling of the glamorous singer Helen Adrian as Helen Adrain.

To Launderette in the p.m. Stopped to look at a new branch of Lawson’s, the estate agents, & lo, there was The Man Who Plays with Cars in the Street’s house, the one opposite, – £245,000. No wonder it hasn’t sold, I knew between them, they would be greedy. The house next door went for £180,000 a few months ago. It needed modernizing & hasn’t got the view over the park, but £245,000….

Some religious cultists in Switzerland killed themselves in droves. Analysing the event, a nice do-good woman with mounds of nice do-good white hair, from the London School of Economics, described their methods, ‘easily swayed people’, ‘charismatic personalities’, ‘abandoning their previous beliefs’, ‘controlled scheme of belief’ & so on. This obviously leads to mass suicide. I hope she finds everyone all right when she gets back to the LSE.

Rang Roy. They have been back for a few days. I suppose people have given up ringing their close friends to say they’re back. I had noticed the fierce gales & ceaseless rain in the west of Scotland, but thought affectionately of Roy making deathless alterations to the play, & Marian soaking up the careless sun, while her friend looks after her baby & Ella.

‘No, the weather was fine,’ but I didn’t write a word. And Marian had to help nurse the other baby who was ill all the time.’ I can’t imagine D. & I in such a muddle, but then, unlike everyone now, we don’t believe travel by itself makes any difference. Look at Noel.

The heater, crossed fingers, comes on Saturday.

Thursday, October 6, 1994

A bit warmer & the sun out all day. Thank goodness when there’s still some heat in it.

I saw a horse on television eating bracken. Do they? I thought it poisoned sheep. I suppose the actor/horse has no integrity & doesn’t care about the truth.

What a silly sentimental society we are becoming, at one & the same time that we are becoming a cruel & violent one.

A ‘child’ – gulp – goes to school at four ‘a day we thought would never come’. She was born at 1lb 2oz, not expected to live… She has to have monthly lung checks & oxygen & ear some things & special glasses etc. Etc. Ridiculous.

Of course, there’s something touching in John M. bringing in his friends to meet me, perhaps as a sort of reference, but I could also see that he thinks me worth meeting – weird again, I expect.

Less touching was the third ‘phone-call from, I presume, his previous landlord, for the payments of his ‘phone bill. He said he was opening a bank account….

Friday, October 7, 1994

No rent this morning, see above. Derrick Marr rang this a.m. to say he’d got diarr – I can’t be bothered to look it up – & how had I cured it?

As it chance, I had decided to go to see ‘Speed’ at the MGM in Baker Street, a few minutes from Derrick’s flat, so, with little sacrifice, I was able to seem impossibly altruistic by dropping some chlorodyne tablets through the letterbox. I’d forgotten how immaculate & grand’s his flats are – a lift with gates on two sides, everything polished to mirror like finish.

‘Speed’ is the ‘action’ film to end all ‘action’ films. Well done & yes, quick. I stayed to the end, fascinated by the boy’s own absurdity of it all, – can they… good heavens, they can pile ludicrous on absurd.

I was afraid the water heater man might ‘let me know to the contrary’, but no little green light was glowing, & I cleared the bathroom with anticipation. Oh & the Tube strike had v. little effect, though I did find Picc. Circus very full & the trains very full & rather far apart. I got a no. 9 instead, slow-ish and diversified by a woman behind me tapping & tickling my back, every time she turned a page of her paper. Every time I lent forward to avoid her, – she never noticed. I looked at her as I got out. Thirty-ish, office worker-ish, glasses on end of nose, slightly thinning hair, hard somewhere, quite unseeing & unnoticing. Sad

Saturday, October 8, 1994

The first good thing was the plumber ringing at nine to say he would arrive at lunchtime. How rare, & especially for me not having to sit on the edge of bed listening for the bell.

He did indeed arrive at 1:15. He made as little trouble as any workman ever has, & I left it to him for the five or so hours it took. Of course there was a lot of banging, but then that is always the main activity of any workman – banging. It seems there was an unexpected iron bar in the wall, so he had to make the hole bigger to avoid it. Anyway he was here about four & a half hours. Just as he left, I asked him what part of the country came from. His voice interested me. He was tall & thin-ish &, as so often, his voice was fairly deep & curiously muffled or veiled. It went with a mild angled face, like a good-looking great nephew of George Formby. I said, ‘Yorkshire’? ‘No’, ‘Lancashire?’ ‘Yes’. I said I hoped he wasn’t teased about it, but nevertheless, though he said he wasn’t, he did withhold a little part of himself when he said, ‘Wigan’. Although he had been lovely, even he had a parting tantalizing shot, ‘the filler, I’ve put round the flue, give it a couple of hours to set before you use the bath’.

So it was 7.45 before I sank into a bath & 9.30 before I washed up properly.

Oh, it was purging. Though the kitchen light is still out. And the other couple of crumpled rose leaves were no rent, ‘the bank hasn’t got back to me – Tuesday, or I might get a sub.’ Hm. Later, after I’d waited dutifully for the foam to set, I thought my towel was looking a bit bulging on the heated rail, & then I saw it was steaming… there were about thirty pairs of socks, some underwear & a shirt or two crammed onto the rail, – it’s a wonder it hadn’t fused. My towel was soaking, perfect for slapping on a face after shaving. I was very cross for a bit because of my first bath for five weeks & no rent. Put them on the clotheshorse, & we had a little scene later. A curious quiet boy.

Sunday, October 9, 1994

Rang Roy to thank him, & Marian. I was glad as I love talking to her, & she was very funny describing her holiday, ‘which was a holiday from hell.’ It seems that the friends child was really ill with this sort of fever that ‘kiddies’ have – that’s not her word – which may be meningitis or maybe over in a day or two like a cold. And they got some strong antibiotics – are some antibiotics stronger then others? Of course they’re not, they’re just delicious magic – & the instructions were in Spanish, ‘crush up’? tablets in? grams of water? Still, they didn’t kill the child, & later in the week they found a Taverna – where were they? in Spain? Italy? well, tourist land, & Marian knew, which served the sort of things English children can bring themselves to eat without a shrieking scene, hamburgers, coke, fries etc. Etc., – I don’t know anything more they like because I’ve never seen it – & they had the nearest thing to a nice time, & the owner was ‘nice’. The next morning they thought they’d go to lunch, – it had been burnt to the ground.

So I told her about the heater, & she was sweet but puzzled. She knew nothing about the £400, & I changed direction in mid-vowel about the actual amount just in case.

Monday, October 10, 1994

In the p.m. got my pension & went to pay £20 to the IT, & then to ‘The Mask’ at Chelsea, quite a long walk past Julian, odd that it’s now a little enemy post to be passed without casualty. I liked The Mask within limits, but the young lead, Jim Carrey interested me. He is that rare thing in American actors, capable of a degree of stylisation & with great precision of movement. I shall wait for his next film in case he can do anything with his gifts beside simply display them.

Tuesday, October 11, 1994

R. coming round distracted me from noticing there was still no rent. Bother.

Anyway, R. arrived at seven-ish, with a bottle of duty-free gin, some grapes, a carton of Covent Garden minestrone, wine, three lemons, a beautiful piece of coral, and later in the evening an offer of money. V. sweet, but he hasn’t got any, has he? Had dropped in on K. who said ‘Mind- connections. You can drive me somewhere, as there is a tube strike.’ (I didn’t notice at one point Arsenal was the only station closed.) They drove round the corner. K. said ‘oh, it’s open, bye.’ Didn’t mention S’s visit to him, & S. hasn’t read the script R. sent him. Naughty of S.

Told me all about Dubai. Gin £35 a bottle, but no special restrictions. There are no licensed restaurants, only cafes run by Indians, who are the servant class there. They went on various expeditions in a hired car. The sea was like a warm bath. The food was wonderful in the hotel. He had coconut milk fresh for the first time. And so on & so on. Hell on earth to me, but young lovers don’t notice anything much. He asked me to do the Moray Rd. garden, for money, & said masterfully that he was coming to lunch on Monday & doing all the odd jobs that need doing, even remembering the broken red flower stand. A very comforting evening.

Wednesday, October 12, 1994

After shitting copiously & well this a.m., as is my almost invariable way, I thought the body was really like a pedal bin. You throw things into it, & other things leak out at the bottom.

Still no rent. Left a sharp note saying that if he went off for the weekend, as he said he was going to, to his parents rented cottage at Abbotsbury, leaving both rents unpaid, he would find a fortnight’s notice waiting for him. It is starting to worry me now, & I start working out the bills. Without the rent. I hope he’s not going to be a disappointment.

Thursday, October 13, 1994 Eventually did my IT on that (very) simplified form. Thought I might as well have a thoroughly nasty day as it was the 13th & still no rent & no answer to my note! He is working 9 – 11 these three days, but still…. How revealing even unopened post can be. He had a letter from NatWest, with N.W.9 instead of W.6 on it, & a postmark dated 5 Oct. And a postcard from a friend ‘I’m going to start a new life in’ – & where? Bournemouth. Hope it won’t give him ideas. Left a sharper note. A female friend called Sam rang to say she’d got his camera, ‘which he’ll need for the weekend.’ Delightful. I nearly told her to bring it round so that I could sell it. I said about the rent, & she said she thought he was opening a bank account because he was being paid by cheque. I see. Except I don’t.

Friday, October 14, 1994

I think today was the 13th really. I saw him at lunchtime, when he apologized in many positions. He hadn’t answered the notes because He was always either late or tired. It seems the difficulty has being that his brother has been away. He said he was going now to get the money. As I supposed he was going to Abbotsbury later, I expected him back in the time it would take him back & forth, so that I could do my shopping & go to the cinema without a care. By three fifteen, I had to go leaving another note. ‘Leave the money on the dining table’. I went to Whiteley’s to see the new Australian film, ‘Priscilla Queen of the Desert’. Now they’ve started booking seats in the p.m. I asked for the back row, on the gangway. ‘Third row in the balcony?’ ‘Balcony?’ I thought they were all flat cinemas. Came away, as it was obviously to full for me. Was in good time to catch the perf. at the dear Tottenham Court Road MGM.

As I wouldn’t be home till eight o’clock, bought two sausage rolls at Boots opposite. Really, soon every shop will sell everything. Went to the further door in the biggest of the cinemas, to avoid if possible, sitting next to anyone. Was just about to sit on the aisle nearly in the back row, & noticed some white tape shutting off the actual back row, just as a Filipino usherette came flapping over like a demented goose, to stop me sitting behind the tape, I suppose. She pointed dramatically. In the space behind the back road was a TV camera…. So I came away again….. having paid this time.

Back home, after having to go back to Holborn to get a seat, it was five hours later. He hadn’t picked up the note. I worried again. Perhaps he wasn’t coming back. But he did, about nine, looking pretty shamefaced. He gave me £50 & the rest on Monday, saying something about his name being on the cheques…. I said, ‘are you going away to Devon?’ And he said, ‘no’, in so miserable away, that I knew the £50 was his holiday money. He assured me all would be well after this, & said how very worried he’d been. So I should hope. I hope he’s right.

Saturday, October 15, 1994

Still beautiful cloudless warm – 64°–autumn weather. The leaves of the beech are turning gold. I still go shopping in a shirt & trousers, & have a big bowl of home grown tomatoes.

I see Diana Churchill has died. She was a charming actress, clear & funny. But the two obits I read in the Indep & The Times have seemed to me rather overblown. She was good certainly, but not with a wide range. She was in the second class, not second rate, but second-class. I think I last saw her on the stage in that 1951 ‘Three Sisters’. It was pleasant to hear that she married Mervyn Johns in their wheelchairs at Denville Hall.

A lovely prog. about Groucho. There was a shot of him at some gala, having a little scene with Margaret Dumont, both very old. He repeated to the presenter that she’d never understood his double entendres or resented his rudeness, & then said she died two days later. On a sort of quiz progr. he compered in the States, he asked a man if he had any family, ‘I’ve nineteen children’. Groucho did no take, but got a big laugh all the same. ‘how is it you’ve got nineteen children?’ ‘I like children’. ‘Well, I like my cigar but I take it out of my mouth once in awhile.’

Groucho was yet another who died in 1997.

Peanuts don’t seem to taste as juicy as they used to. I expect they’re fat free. It really is extremely irritating to have health forced on one.

Oh, & the other night R. said was everything all right between K & Sharron? Comic, when I was saying, was everything all right between R & Zoe. They seem to be more together, & she always seems to answer the phone, which I find a bit tiresome. But, of course, its quite true K. has been a bit restless, & the tranny club & one or two other tiny signs. By the way, Sharron hasn’t rung me as she would weeks ago. And then her studio, & K’s workload. They’ve been together about seven years, haven’t they!

Sunday, October 16, 1994

A programme on that charlatans paradise, hypnosis. One of them announced that there are people who watch Coronation St & people who watch Star Trek. Coronation St. does not make hypnotic subjects, – Star Trek does. Well, K. has been taken in by a hypnotist before now, tho’ not I think tranced himself. ‘Star Trek’ watchers are imaginative (sic). As usual, I can escape categorization, as I watch neither programme.

At 7.25 K. rang. What a lovely surprise, as I didn’t think he’d be free for a few days yet. ‘I just wanted a word. It’s been tough, up till four most nights. Towards the end of the week I’ll have a few days to myself.’ It was such a lift.

Now all I need is the £70 owing tomorrow. It keeps me awake a bit because I’m not sure I believe John M.

K. will be my age in 2029.

Monday, October 17, 1994

First of all, no, there was no money & no sign of him. It’s really worrying, as the £70 will just pay the water rate, which is a fortnight overdue.

However, the day had a few compensations, I had a dream last night about S. taking me endless ways round somewhere where I lost my coat, my gloves, my dear pen was broken etc. Etc. & we didn’t get where we were going – I don’t think it was a hotel or a theatre. I don’t quite know why it was poor S. either, tho’ I know he has contempt for the settled life I like. (I think he & K. might be together in deriding the ‘trivial’ detail, which I like.) But of course, there’s also the pain I feel at him seeing me so little, – it is good of him to send me books & so on, but I feel it’s partly bribery, because he won’t – or can’t – give me more of himself. Three times a year for an hour & a half – is that friendship?

In the p.m. went to Selfridge’s to pay the a/c, & on the way back went down that subway on the north side of Oxford St. leading to Bond St. station. It’s nearly always empty. This time there was one other person – Justin. I wonder what the odds are against that. He’s got digs in Finsbury Park, two teachers. So they’ll have the monster packets of everything, & the spoiled tantrums & the weight of an empty life.

Went on to the Priscilla film at last. Thoroughly enjoyed it, though I agree with one notice which said it wasn’t as funny as its makers thought. It’s fascinating how convincing straight men can be as gays. The audience was fascinating, too, as full as any afternoon perf. I’ve seen, about half full, & when I came out, there was a queue four deep from the top of the stairs out into the street & round the corner – on a Monday. Both audiences were also fascinating, as they were overwhelmingly 25 – 35 straight couples… R. rang to say, ‘yes, yes, no’. I couldn’t remember the questions. And as I said no money, tho’ he, J.M. promised it for Monday, if that isn’t a lie, what is?

Tuesday, October 18, 1994

No sound from John M. till he stumped up here, knocked loudly & pushed the £70 into my hand. Taken umbrage at the ‘lies’. Tough.

Lovely day with R. Who was a bit late because he had to talk to the man who’d come to cut the trees down. Oh how some people hate trees. The woman who owns the house obviously does, & has found a naturally compliant surveyor & tree doctor to say that they’re undermining the foundations. As far as I can gather they’re a lilac bush about twelve feet high at the back, & that ornamental fruit tree at the front, in the middle of a four feet border & about nine feet high, planted two or three years ago. Really ‘untidy’ I expect, & ‘all those leaves’, & most of all ‘makes the room dark’. I love dark rooms. I remember hating D’s Clapham flat, no curtains, facing south, so you felt you were sitting on a glaring shelf.

Wednesday, October 19, 1994

Blowy & colder. Leaves down in the clouds & piles. Oh, R. was so kind yesterday. He started on the flower stand. He more or less finished the greenhouse door. He did the bathroom curtain. And, best of all, the kitchen light. No more candles over the washing-up

This p.m. to see the new American film ‘Threesome’. A sort of Jules et Jim only Jim is gay & in love with Jules. Hm. It was not the gruesome piece of pretentiousness I’d expected. We were mercifully spared the higher Californian bosh. It wasn’t bad – just not honest enough. If only it had been made in France.

You could really kick some people. A black woman from Antigua has lived here for twenty-five years, & wants to go back. ‘England is no country to grow old in’. Stupid & insulting.

For the fifth year running Kevin has been the most popular boys name in…. France. Imagine K. being chic.

Thursday, October 20, 1994

Quite warm & sweaty under clothes put on against the autumn chill.

I thought John M. was still sulking, but it seems not. When I got back from the film tonight, the rent was on the dining table, with a card saying ‘here’s the rent, cheers. John.’ The ‘cheers’ was a surprise aesthetically, as well. I can’t at the moment, imagine him saying anything so animated. The card was interesting, too. It was a professionally produced card of a wicker chair that he’d made, with ‘Parnham House, Beaminster, Dorset. His college? Goodness knows. The chair looks hideous, & hideously uncomfortable. The back looks like the post of a barbed wire fence round which all the spare wire has been wrapped. The seat would leave hard stripes on your butt. I would be nervous a bit of wicker would fly up – but it was a kind gesture.

Overslept this morning, which I hate as I feel so stale. Postponed lunch till about four, partly as a result of that & partly because I was going to the film tonight, so needed to be kept going till ten thirty.

The film was lovely. It Should Happen to You, starring Bridget Fonda & Nicolas Cage, both, I think, undervalued. I cried frequently, the evening went in a flash & I shall go & see it again. I always cry when goodness is praised & wins in the end. It reminded me of D. giving her friends flats when S.D. was a success. Integrity moves me about as much as anything.

Friday, October 21, 1994

Oh, I went up to the office with Janet, & she gave me some old London Review of Books & a 1952 Theatre Arts. The play is The Country Girl. I wonder if it’s any good still. I also took away a sad looking Jasmine polyanthum. Repotted it, & this morning it looks better already. Cut out the dead wood of course, but it is surprising how in tiny ways, plants show their recovery.

I see there was a rail crash killing five people & injuring twenty or so. Two trains collided on a single track that used to be a double track. Now a similar crash was averted just outside Frant. So that’s a single track now. So familiar stopping there at night on the way to the cottage. How disgraceful to make that busy line single track, because there was certain to be an accident. Money, of course.

On the news tonight, it was sad to see Burt Lancaster had died. He was that rare thing, a really intelligent hunk. I always thought it a pity that he was called Burt, which emphasized the hunk side. He was able to be in really European pictures, without, as so many American stars do, condescending to them, & in so doing, only revealing the shallow sands of American acting. How good he was in Local Hero, for instance, & what fishes out of water most yank actors would have been. He was the same age as D, & didn’t make a film till he was 32. I remember it well, The Killers, & he showed no sign to me, at 20, of any traces of a novice, tho’ it seems he’s only been in one stage play, in a short run.

K. said to me some months ago that the world was going mad. It is certainly becoming more & more vulgar & uncultivated. Mass taste controls & taints more & more. I suppose some day there will come back a civilization that will understand, & what remains of cultivated English taste in surviving books, will be rescued. Perhaps, like the study of Greek & Latin, it will be inspiration of a new literature in some other language. Of course, it will happen differently, because people will understand English – of a sort, – for a good many centuries, I would think.

Saturday, October 22, 1994

A programme based on newspapers & questions about them. Deadly, you might think, but not as treated by say, Peter Cook, Alan Coren or Richard Ingrams, who are often on it. It seems R. Ingrams read out a cutting, ‘in an Irish newspaper, the ball in a Spot the Ball competition, was left in the picture by mistake. Despite this they received hundreds of incorrect entries’!

Peter Cook is genuinely anarchic. You feel he wouldn’t care about undermining the whole point or structure of anything he was in. No doubt that’s why he’s not so widely ‘popular’ as the other three. In an exchange of wit revolving around precocity, Einstein, & child abuse, P. Cook exhausted the subject by saying, ‘yes, Einstein was very precocious. He interfered with himself in the womb.’

Justin rang to come & pick up some more things. He arrived on time, & was gone in ten minutes. We exchanged some film gossip. He has no job, of course. I wasn’t going out, anyway, except to the shops, as its half-term.

There is a series in one of the colour supplements, called something like facts you need to know about this week, it was Ken B. First comment was something like ‘he isn’t hated by everyone – the rest just intensely dislike him.’ And the rest was more or less equally vitriolic. I mean, Jeremy Beadle was mentioned… I don’t know that he quite deserves all this, but I have to admit that the elements of calculation, even in his casual blokishness being carefully used to pre-empt criticism by making it himself first, does lose my sympathy. He’s acting abilities are nothing special, of the second or third rank, at best. You see, calculating people cannot play Hamlet, as Larry O. should have discovered. I shan’t go & see Pulp Fiction, as I didn’t Reservoir Dogs. I never agreed with the glorification of the gangster years ago so….

Sting says his children ‘lying asleep, laid claim to the faces of old uncles & aunts, which is nice.’

Another reason to be grateful for having no children. Imagine, Uncle Will’s & Aunt Mary whinging little faces. God knows what Daddy’s brothers & sisters were like, as, thank God, I never met them. They must be dead by now – the youngest, who died years before Daddy, would be 97 now. Thank goodness none of the myriad Mackay cousins have ever tried to get in touch – perhaps they have no family sense either.

I was only thinking the other day, with what satisfaction, if hideous Bodkin loomed back from Australia with her vet, I could quite truthfully say, ‘but you’re no relation to me at all.’ She is not Donald’s child – I think Joan & her mother must have been the parents judging by her looks & behavior. Not that I would let her in if she were my niece.

Turned on the TV in the middle of a horse race, & even I was caught by a horse suddenly accelerating, apparently effortlessly & winning by yards. Celtic Swing. It seems it was bred by Lavinia Duchess of Norfolk – that’s the old Duchess – & sold quite recently to somebody or other. It’s already 6 – 1 for the derby next year!

But the fascination was the trainer. Lady Hermes is the Duchess of Norfolk’s daughter. A deb of my generation obviously, & a genuine aristocrat – after all, she’s a Howard – she is not perhaps what people who aspire to aristocracy, think aristocrats are really like. Well, she’s square, big in every direction, a square plump red face, no make-up, that I could see, rather dry, rather tumbled, rather badly permed hair, upholstered in a tweedish brownish oldish coat. Her teeth need attention, tho’ they are frequently revealed in the laughs that divide her conversation into quite arbitrary & meaningless lengths. Indeed almost the only laugh I could attach to any remark for any reason whatsoever was ‘my mother is quite ill. Ha ha.’

Otherwise the laughs & smiles, were recklessly sprinkled, without any service to logic,

Ruby Wax, who seems to me to have a claim to be a real person, interviewed Madonna. I had previously thought M. to be the merest tabloid invention. I have to say she was a real person, too, within the limits of a TV interview, who didn’t say a single pretentious or obscure thing. I liked what I saw. She’s suffering from America.

The Long Tall Thin Streak of Nothing may be getting a place of his own. He’s getting estate agents letters, so perhaps there will be less thundering up & down stairs with hockey sticks, & less of that useless moving about.

Monday, October 24, 1994

Another immensely long boring theatrical anxiety dream, why can’t one remember dreams unless you write them down on waking? (Which I did, but can’t be bothered to write it down here.) Perhaps because you really do use a different bit of your brain to think or to dream.

Goodness, the fascination. The first paragraph of Nigel Dempster’s gossip column was about Geoffrey Howe’s early loves. I had completely forgotten that he was engaged to Liz Jones, ‘a PT teacher’. I remember her well, – she was a nice common girl with her rather uninteresting sex on the surface, rather less usual then it is today. She was apparently playing Sorrel (sic) in ‘Hay Fever’ in for the Mummers (actually it was Joan Hour about 20 years too old.) When she fell in love with her co-star – what part? Oliver Pemberton. Well, poor Oliver was a nice conventional timid public school boy – Head prefect type. I take it her obvious sex captivated him. I have a distinct memory of his family disapproving. ‘Are the shades of Pemberton to be thus polluted? I expect they weren’t too sure of their Pembertoness.

Liz was commonplace, beside her momentary physical appeal. It seems they set up a school together – I never have imagined they were actually married – & some years later she was killed in a head on collision on the old A1.

This all roused a few old comic memories. I hope no pompous idiot was in love with me. Because of course poor old Geoffrey – picture of him & his wife like a couple of badly stuffed sacks, comments on poor little – or rather big – Liz’s death, in his own imitable combination of pomposity & instant oblivion.

And then, on a switch of a switch, there was Julian Moore on the radio. He’s written a bestselling book about Provence. Just before, a husband & wife whose family has been farming in Provence for some hundreds of years, wondered if they’d still be farming in three or four years, let alone their children. Neither side made the connection. When did I last hear J.M.’s voice? Thirty, forty years? Just the same.

Further to my Ken B. comments, he was on Film 94 & finished off ‘well thank you, Bryan.’ I didn’t hear all of it, so it might have been a running gag of some kind. The bit I did see, included ‘Mary Shelley was influenced by Goethe & Milton.’ ‘I can’t spell Goethe, let alone pronounce it.’ Now that’s what I despise, that sort of populism. He should be proud of saying Goethe quietly & carefully to his big audience.

In the p.m. to film ‘The Client’. Mostly implausible, but well acted throughout, by Tommy Lee Jones. Carefully using a strong southern accent & break-neck pace to skate over the holes. Susan Sarandon finding every little true bit of feeling & an excellent boy who may be an actor. Brad Renfro.

Tuesday, October 25, 1994

An article in the Indep. on advertising underlined my, I presume, oddity. It was a survey of the effects of advertising campaigns on sales. Wonderbra – at 7000 a week, Boddington bitter cream of M’chester – sales trebled. Pepperami, ‘a bit of an animal’, up by 33% in the 6 months after start. BMW – ‘ultimate driving machine’ – sales trebled since then.

I have seen all these advertisements frequently, & discounting my inability to buy a BMW anyway, it never has, & never would, occur to me to buy something in response to an advertisement. Another way in which I am eccentric.

Later.

K. rang at two ish to say Sharron had moved out. Oh I am so sorry. He’d been foolish & unfaithful & she’d found out. She wanted me to know that at once, ‘as she thinks very, very highly of you.’

Oh what a variety of feelings poured over me – sadness for him & her, – especially her turned out of the house she worked so hard to change, worry that he may upset his life & his work, & of course the selfish feelings, joy that he’s coming to me on Thursday to tell me that I’ll have him to myself for a few hours, shame that I feel this. And poor Sharron with no home.

Wednesday, October 26, 1994

Darling Sharron rang & we’ve arranged lunch on Friday. I didn’t tell her he was coming round tomorrow, & she didn’t ask. We touched on the separation & she jibbed away ‘I may become upset.’ I shall see what she wants, I shall suggest we get a sandwich & a bottle of wine & stay in the studio, so she can cry in private. Of course she may not want to cry or discuss it much at all, & it must be what she wants. She may just want a lunch to re-establish our independent friendship, with the lever of me seeing the workshop studio. She could laugh.

This p.m. as I said to her, I went to the Sitwell exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. I thought it excellent in scope & in detail. Of course, the Philistine’s are still in force, in having them ‘revived’. When have their actual merits been compellingly questioned? Osbert’s autobiography is one of my half-dozen favourite books – it’s in my bedroom.

It was extraordinary to see all the illustrations in their originals. The Richmond portrait with the zither the Sir George without a beard & The Sargent family group, which I never thought to see. I remember Graham Robertson saying in Time Was – another book in my bedroom – saying how shocked he was seeing him, Sargent placidly putting new paint over imperfectly dried paint, knowing that it would flake in a few years.

Well, I know little of painting, but it seemed to me to be quite fresh as if it had been painted yesterday. And to be as pretty absurd a document as ever. I went past so many familiar pictures & books, most of which I have, in that nice battered read condition. Now I am far from despising the books beautifully displayed in the showcases, which are the perfect copies, lent by Francis & Reseby Sitwell. And they will have working copies as well. And there was a large ledger with Osbert’s first sketches & for the autobiography.

There were some new photos, which gave me great pleasure. Old Lady Sitwell in that conservatory at Wood End, & David Horner smoking sideways. Goodness, the crimped blonde waves, oh dear. And there was the MS of the Valse in Facade & the record playing at quite, apparently, arbitrary intervals, – I was there for three quarters of an hour & it came on once – of Edith & Constant Lambert. I didn’t realize it existed. I wasn’t very impressed at first hearing, but I’d like to hear it alone. I couldn’t tell one from another. And of course they were using words as music, always irritating, as a backward step. I was there for three quarters of an hour, & fairly riveted.

Some new aperçu’s. A photo of St George at about 17 or so, in armour, without beard or moustache, looking exactly like Osbert – as one might have guessed. A photo of Edith in conventional Edwardian dress – ‘a fairy queen’. David Horner, a ghastly ‘30s queen, with crimped fair hair like Neville Heath, a camp Neville Heath, how could Osbert… Edith’s clothes, a small showcase, were quite interesting. Furnishing materials, hung round her without distinction of tailoring, – the effect was entirely dependent on everyone else being conventional. E.g. Ascot 1935. Her jewellery more interesting, big, clear, genuine.

My tiny link with the Sitwell’s at Cambridge, Henry the IV part II Marlowe Society. I played Poins. Reresby S. played one of the crowd – had a one line or two? He introduced me to his parents afterwards – I was a bit of a star in the Camb. acting world then I suppose. He, tall & remote & silent, she still pretty dark and – vivacious – I think is the word. Reresby distinguished himself at one performance – his genial voice rose above the crowd, ‘what college are you in? Trinity? Jeremy Paxman recommended the Open University on the grounds that former students included Sheila Hancock & Matthew Kelly. Help.

R. puzzled me by ringing at 8:20 & suddenly remembering I was at dinner. He didn’t say what he wanted, but sounded a bit unlike himself. When I rang after-dinner, it turned out he’d hurt his eye in the garden. We talked it over, & I said he should go to Moorfields. I’m no medical fuss pot, but eye’s get infected so easily & are so important. He rang back & said their casualty dept was open, & he went there at 10:15.

Rang the few people who should be warned about K. Called Mary L. to see what she’d say. To my amusement & irritation, she started out on advice! Imagine! The expert at putting peoples backs up immediately.

Later. I am poised in terror as to what tomorrow may bring. Who is this new girl? Is it over? Is it taking him away? Perhaps physically? I was so settled with Sharron who has my tastes in a lot of ways. She said it had been on for a year. She moved out on Sunday & is living in Lordship Park.

I know I’m thinking of myself but I don’t know yet how unhappy or upset he is yet. And of course he’ll lose the car. Oh dear. He is so central to my life I have to think of myself.

Friday, October 28, 1994

Saturday, October 29, 1994

What a three days… the evening with K. was not as late as usual – he left at about eleven, saying ‘I’m having a taxi – I need the comfort’. I didn’t think he did need the comfort. I thought he was exhilarated rather than anything else.

He sat down after a longer than usual more solemn hug & was just starting out on a blow-by - blow account when the phone rang & it was Sharron. My first reaction was irritation, as when Linda always rang Neal when he was here. I pieced together from the conversation, – in the circumstances I thought it superfluous not to stay in the room – that she was at Elfort Road, & that she’d found a fax from Ibiza. I suppose it arrived while she was there, & how much better it would have been if she hadn’t read it. It seems it was a message from a girl in Ibiza & she Sharron, felt outraged because it was more or less a love letter, arriving for her to read. He refuted firmly that he would let it arrive for her to read, ‘you know me better than that’. She went on & on, obviously obsessively, with him accounting for every sentence, by for instance, saying that she had offered him have her Villa, any time, & ‘I must get away on my own sometime before Christmas’. Sharron went on. He said, ‘Sharron she’s going to Germany for two months, which is why I can have the villa.’ Sharron went on. He took her thro’ the letter phrase by phrase, he made her read it out & said, ‘yes, I see, it’s a bit of a love letter, but that’s not my fault.’ Altogether the talk lasted about twenty minutes, quite useless from poor Sharron’s point of view, as all she did was give herself more pain by the call. When he put the phone down he said, ‘Poor Sharron. Of course it’s all true.’

So he went back to the beginning, which turned out to be October last year. (So I have been right to have felt that his restlessness since the beginning of the year. When we have been alone, things have been as usual, but with Sharon there, something more withheld has been present. I suppose that’s why they have been so separate in entertaining.) It seems that it was then that he felt that the relationship – I hate that word – was ‘winding down’. ‘Though’, he said brightly, ‘the sex was great all through – in the last few months we’ve done new things.’ I wonder if Sharron felt the sex was equally great, after he suggested that October that they might separate for six months, remaining friends, – he didn’t seem to make the connection that she would lose her home, he didn’t mention it anyway to me. I hope he did to her. He had been faithful to her for eight years – to my amazement it’s nine years they’ve been together – but he was unfaithful in guess where? Ibiza. ‘They’re like that there’. He said naively. And of course it was this girl who sent the fax. But he was lying to Sharron about it, because she knows nothing of it & it is not the infidelity that broke them up. ‘No, that was Jackie, she’s black, & has those black tits’. The naivity even more pronounced… the girl is a bit of a rich drifter, strikes me, – well, if not rich herself sailing some kind of sea of money.

Jackie is a p.a. – ‘well, a glorified receptionist’ – for some sort of sound firm. She introduced him to an important music advert agency. He’s doing a sort of audition for them this w/e, for Sharwood sauce tape, tho’ they have in fact lost the Sharwood account. They wanted a more classical composer. Its head is a ‘powerhead of 30, who said she sat up in bed thinking about….’ So I daresay the powerhead will be next.

Sharron found out by a mistake, tho’ not the usual sort. He had slept with Jackie two or three? times, at least once at Elfort Rd. (I do hope he didn’t tell Sharon that, – it might sour all those years there.) The idiots didn’t use a condom, – ‘but I didn’t come’ he protested. As if that made any difference to his catching AIDS. If she’s a one night-stand girl who knows how many? Anyway, a little later, Jackie announced that she had trichomoniasis & she got it from him. He went & had a test & he was free. It didn’t seem to have occurred to him that if he was the culprit Sharron would have had it years ago. He did in fact have it years ago, before we met, I think, so that made him feel it might be him, I suppose.

Was it because of that that he told her? I forget. Anyway he did tell her, & chose to tell her while she was in the bath. Oh, Kevin, what fools these mortals be! She threw most of the contents of the bath over him, but it wasn’t funny. ‘It’s terrible to cause such a pain’. He slept on the sofa.

Yes, he is shaken by it all, but that doesn’t stop him every now & and then turning into The Jack The Lad K. of twelve years ago. Not my favourite K. talking about ‘pulling people again’ & so on. But I knew it would come back at some point or other.

The rest of his news. He was at Pete Sinfield’s in Abbey Rd. – fancy – & saw a royalty cheque for £40,000 odd. Also a CV of stars he has had chart hits with, which started with Aretha Franklin, Bucks Fizz, Cher… they have half a dozen songs on hand, some are ready to be taped & sent to the appropriate stars to whom P.S. (presumably) has access. I asked who they’d get to sing them, & he said we’re thinking of Sean Maguire for one of them. Well, he likes his coke, it seems. Hm.

He’s cross with R. with reason. Told him he can’t write a musical! (R. hasn’t mention that to me.) Said he’d get Pete S. to do it, & sent him his CV to send to Cambridge. A great snip & R. has done, it seems, nothing. Or has said nothing. ‘What does R. do?’ Indeed what? Of course, there’s his eye this week…

He said at one point, ‘you know me so well’.

On Friday, yesterday, thankfully without the hangover I’d been dreading. Got myself to The Angel. Could see at once the state poor darling Sharron was in. She had lost weight, & clung to me when I kissed her, took my hand & kept very close. I said what about a sandwich & a glass of wine in the studio? She looked blurred, because she had, in her pain, decided exactly what she could bear. We crossed Upper St. & a bit of the way up Liverpool St. Liverpool St. – past the corner shop, which is now a building society, but was an old-fashioned jewelers, where I bought my chain one day in misery in 1977 on the way to the pictures.

It wasn’t until a little way up that I realised it’s the same L’pool Rd. going up to the H’way Rd. I’m always doing that in London. She suddenly turned into a ‘caff’ – but, of course, being Sharron it’s wasn’t. It was about 1215, & a waiter was at the table at the right of the door folding napkins. The tables were set in booths, & Sharron had obviously settled on this one, because if she sat facing the street, there will be nobody to see her except me. It looked & felt Italian, but was called Le Bistro Mont Martre. But it was honest. The à la cart I didn’t see, – she insisted on playing – the Table d’Hote was £5, for three courses. They were, I think, no choice – oh yes that’s Table d’Hote! – Carrot & Coriander soup, Sant´s of Tongue, & Apple compote, all more than eatable, & the nice slice of tongue in a perfectly acceptable sauce, with sauté pts, which were delicious, & my first hot tongue in years. (Sounds a bit sad.)

But there were few jokes facing me across the table. She is wretchedly agonisingly unhappy. She told me of the new sex ploys, ‘I loved him.’ She told me of hearing him talking & laughing to friends on the phone, perhaps to me, when she could have done neither, & felt she might never have a life again. She feels worth nothing, ‘but I am worth something. I am a good person, I am.’ She told me about the fling, & no condom, & should she have an AIDS test & that’s my fireplace’…. We went off to the studio.

It’s off the right of Upper St. down Noel St. & all that lovely Georgian bit down to the canal. It’s not just the houses & terraces, it’s the way they are set one against the other, & the beautiful angled spaces between. Down the end of a narrow street with a pub at the corner, The Marquis of Canals or some such title, it’s side window’s absurdly angled like a barge, there is an old warehouse with those tall round topped many panned windows. Inside, workshops have been made by building floors & galleries on various levels. S’s studio is about 20 x 12, the window opposite the door. The floor cuts it off about halfway, so the pretty arched top half of the window is on the ground floor. Through it you can see nothing but rippling water, The Grand Union canal. As I looked out, a couple of swans swam into a strategic position ready for the photo. I think that view of water will be a help to her – water is soothing. And when whoever it is comes to share the studio, it’ll be someone who’s never heard of K. – I hope, & that’ll be a help, too.

She showed me her jewellery all with ‘Leeds’ ‘Manchester’ etc penciled on, a display board with Christmas card designs on it, & a large box of blank cards & envelopes on the floor, some hundreds, I suppose. ‘I photo-copy them onto the cards, brings in a bit more money’. I thought of her humping that box of cards through the door, up the stairs & along the gallery, with tears pouring down, I expect. When I left, she held onto me so long, I thought she’d never let go.

I said to her that all the pain wouldn’t be wasted if she faced it the right way: in the same way as the anger & bitterness she feels against K. must be struggled against. She has lost so much, her partner, her home, her lifestyle, her garden, even her cat…

K. might reply tho’ he didn’t, even by implication, that she knew that if they split up this would happen. Men & women are equal now, & a relationship is not a marriage. But she did say, ‘and that’s my fireplace.’ And ‘when he comes to sell Elfort Road, it’ll be worth that much more because of all my work.’ All true, but I’d rather she hadn’t said it just now.

Back at home I was charmed by Desmond Tutu saying in an interview that, when he first came over here to train, he & his wife would ask a policeman the way even when they knew it, ‘so as not to have to produce a pass & to have a white man say, ‘yes sir – yes madam’.

So I got myself today, Saturday, over to Annette Kerr’s for lunch with Mary L., having stopped off at M & S. I got two different vegetarian dishes for interest, one a rice dish, the other pasta. Now it’s a very good illustration of her uncertain touch, that she greeted my choice of dishes, with that awful sniggering laugh as if I’d made a perfect fool of myself. I know by this time that she thinks she’s being playful. Later on she did something similar, – I forget in what context – & even I did not perceive the playfulness, I just thought she was objecting to something. She said sharply, ‘I thought you’d be mature enough to take a bit of teasing, but it seems not.’ I must say it’s quite flattering to be called immature at 68. We get on better on the phone! As I came away, I thought of her with rueful affection & admiration for her independence. Usually wrong, prejudiced, with a manner designed to put off the vast majority of people, an inward breathing laugh that sounds most neurotic, & such a narrow view of art & the world, she nevertheless retains a perfect confidence in her opinions & standards although I don’t think she ever expresses them to anyone but me, now.

Curious little memories roused by seeing that an early Dennis Potter TV play – the first one? is being revived. (Oh, how they’re over valuing him!) But the curious little memory is that it stars Eric Porter & John Neville, who came to notice at The Bristol OV when D. was leading lady. And what an awkward pair they are! Both with chips against university actors, & both capable of very poor behavior. John N. When he ran Nottingham.

Sunday, October 30, 1994

Completely forgot to record that I rang to cancel John Nick because of K’s trouble. He told me of his job-hunting, & very good interview at the V & A, despite not getting the job. But I was touched when he said that while he was waiting he went & looked my suit for comfort.

Ordinary people have an extraordinary use of language. I think it’s in part the shyness & moderateness of the British character. Sweet sincerity expressed by families of suicides, but oh the style, ‘if my wife did try it again, it would hurt me a great deal to a certain extent.’

The gross sentimentality copied from America, encouraged a blind deaf single parent to have a baby. The tears of joy should have been of sorrow for the life they’re condemning that poor child to.

Monday, November 1, 1994

A chilly, windy, wet & dark day, so November. It rained continually & I thought of poor Sharron crying in the dark. In popular novels it always rains when the heroine’s miserable. Got up late & went to bed early.

Tuesday, November 2, 1994

Justin rang for a chat. He’ll gradually realize no doubt that I don’t call him. Of course he’s in a gay house. He said they were teachers & innocently I thought…. Well, he’ll be much better there.

About 3.30 K. rang to ask how Sharron was on Friday. It seems that on Saturday he’d mapped out his weekend satisfactorily. He’d do the creative side of it on Sat. morn & aft, then take the evening off, before the technical work on Sun. & Mon. ‘I could get some scrag end of lamb on, & a nice bottle of wine, I’d lit the log fire, & I was going to watch a silly film, & Sharron came round. She stayed about an hour, smoking, & left, I wasn’t very encouraging. She rang the next morning to say she wouldn’t do it again.’ Talk about turning the knife in your own wounds…

The fire, the smell of cooking, the cat, K on the sofa, & she condemns herself to leave them again. Oh, silly girl, I’m surprised.

I told him about Thursday, & how surprised I was, with her allergy & her views, that she was smoking. He told me the advert agency had loved his Sharwood. Good. He really does seem to be getting on.

‘How are you?’ ‘I’m still shaken’. He thanked me for my letter.

Bought four punnets of English raspberries reduced to 50p each. The late varieties are certainly better, much better than they used to be. These were smallish, but delicious.

Wednesday, November 3, 1994

There was a moving video diary on TV, narrated & filmed by Captain Richard Bramford, made in Serbian Bosnia. He spoke the language, which helped so much. He’s left the Army, & is now working out there. The best of Englishness. I wonder if the language is called Serbian, it’s not safe to assume anything out there.

I was electrified to see that This Is Your Life, that loathsome programme, was about Andrew Lloyd Webber. With two loathsomenesses combining, I thought I’d watch it, & it lived down to my expectations. The programme was as follows: Elaine Paige sang Memories from ‘Cats’, Julian Lloyd Webber & wife Zora? with childhood memories. Tim Rice. Chorus from Joseph. David Land, agent, a caricature of a Jew, like Lew Grade. Jesus Christ SS. Jeeves mentioned, no Alan Ayckbourn. Glenn Close from New York, with a play for the opening of Sunset Boulevard. David Essex, a number from Evita. Don Black, with an unfunny story. Paul Nicholas, another number from Cats.

Starlight express mercifully only mentioned. Phantom. Michael Crawford sickeningly oily from America. Sarah Brightman ‘your ex wife’, in nun-like black veiling & a good deal of shoulder & bosom, sang all thro’ Requim.

Melvyn Bragg! José Carreras from where? Grossly sentimental. Phillip Schofield on Joseph, hoping for another part, no doubt. Trevor Nunn!! After ‘your wife’, Michael Ball sang Love Changes Everything.

Now I find it impossible to believe that such a calculating self-regarding fraud, would ever take part in a genuinely spontaneous programme. He was never taken unawares. During Memories, there were balloon close-ups of him ‘being moved’ & Elaine P. giving all. There was a full orchestra, two grand’s, & a conductor, in a huge set. And the programme was three quarters of an hour instead of a half. Has this ever happened before? Now I loathe the program more than ever.

Today it was blueberries down to 99p a punnet. They’re all Polish. Odd. I haven’t had the gas fire on yet, except when I had squitters.

Thursday, November 3, 1994

In the middle ‘60s today. Oh, R. rang & said he’d been offered a play at The Man in The Moon. With his usual rather tiresome caution, he told me nothing about it except, in hushed tones, that he ‘found it really quite shocking, – I was surprised’, or words to that effect. ‘Shocking’ now to a man of 29? What can be in it? He reminded me of another script he’s had for a bit, ‘Night mother’. He knows I keep a little index of actors I notice. Could I suggest someone for a girl ‘20’s – ‘30’s & her mother ‘50’s - ’60’s. It’s set in the southern states of the US. ‘so they can’t be black? Or perhaps they must be black?’ Even that didn’t squeeze any vestige of the plot.

He then told me he wanted to ask my advice about learning Latin. One way & another, thinking of what K. had said, it made me impatient. After all, what has he done these last few years but odd jobs. And Latin will simply be something else that he doesn’t finish. A pity, when he’s such a dear. I rang the next day, Monday, I think, with a list of names. No reaction yet. The two big cardboard boxes the water heater came in are still in the area full of rubble. The dustmen won’t touch them. They are now collapsing in the rain. I have no alternative but to take the rubble bit by bit in carrier bags, & hope for a skip. What would I do if I were really old, 79 or 89?

Friday, November 4, 1994

Pouring all day, so that when I was coming home, there were muffled dampish thumps from all the fireworks display, which seem to be mostly tonight. How I hate it, that the proper rituals of the nation are not on the proper day.

Made a rice dish before I went out. I think that’s the first time since this spring, more or less. One goes off joints in hot weather. I felt like going to a movie, so cancelled my hair appointment. After all it doesn’t matter what I look like now. I went to The Renoir, rather on the lines of choosing my TV programme by how easy it is to read by, I partly went to The Renoir because there’s a shop there which is one of the few places I can buy my writing paper.

The film was Killed Again from the director of The Last Seduction. This was such a success they have revived this, his first film. It is for or five years old & and, as it unfolded I realised after ten minutes or so that I’d seen it before. However I can always watch Val Kilmer. His wife should examine her smile, – it becomes a sort of sneer, because of the strong nose to mouth lines & the raising of her top lip. It’s not so bad now, but as she grows older, it will of course become permanent. She must take care to get rid of it, or control it, as soon as possible. The Renoir is one of the nicer cinemas. It has the air of being run by a person, whom you might ask to meet. As well as the writing paper, there’s a Safeway’s. I love killing birds….

Oh, & I finished that nasty American rice, Easy-cook, will not stick. Oh, dear, Americans – will not taste either. They wouldn’t like the taste, I daresay.

Saturday, November 5, 1994

Had a poor night, for no reason that I could see. Got up at 3:30, & had some toast, & watched Cinema? how over exposed Ken’s Frankenstein is – it’s being advertised this moment, with that is ridiculous, ‘thrilling’ American voice for a completely European subject. Ah well. I’m beginning to feel more & more sorry for Ken. He’s got himself into shape for this one – he’ll probably never be the same again. All that ‘tone’ will sag. Went back to bed at four & woke at nine. Brought in the papers, & had read two paragraphs of an article in The Spectator before realising that it was last week’s. It was the para about dear little squirrels in Bournemouth for the Conservative conference that did it. The wretched newsagents had sent last week.

Going back to cinema, for the moment, how amazed Hollywood would be if a genius appeared! And I mean a genius, as opposed to someone very talented. One definition of genius is that it overcomes all or any obstacles. It certainly sweeps away whatever conventions are in force, & goodness, has there ever been such a conventional time?

How subtle he is. Its guy Fawkes night, which we’ve spent together at parties three? four? times. This made me think of new year’s eve. For some years, after the big party at B. Rd they came here. And then they didn’t partly because I didn’t want it to become a ‘must’ & I’m sure he felt the same. But also because she wasn’t going to be the ‘daughter in law’, as it were.

I copied these lines in a while ago, D. quoted them from where? ‘If you love me as I love you, nothing but death should part us two.’

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 130

November 6 1994 - January 11 1995.

Sunday November 6 1994

Thank goodness, sunshine again, and the rain has stopped.

Dream this a.m. S. with smooth rounded face, thick lips, a schoolbag in grey flannel shorts. He was being dictatorial as usual, and upsetting things. Odd. He was about fifteen, pubescent. I can’t imagine he was at all like that, tho’ he does upset things.

Hazel rang as usual, and said that although John Howard Davies was still trying to ‘set up’ her detective for Penny K., after two years and now she’s received an offer thro’ her agent, from an American film firm, Hallmark. Incidentally J.H-D. has adapted a book into a script which has nothing of the original plot or characters, except Mrs. Mallory, the detective, and they have bought an option on the character. I must try and find out who Hallmark are. Asked Roy, and he said Rochelle would know because she knows ‘everybody.’ Janet said she knew it made b’day cards…

Left a message at Sharron’s place, and she rang back at nine. She sounded a bit brighter, had been out with someone called Justin, and ‘I haven’t rang Kevin all week.’ She’s now facing up to dreading her birthday. We arranged a week on Tuesday to be penciled in. Oh dear, she’s going to be 30.

Monday November 7 1994.

Bright mild day. A tickle of a cough.

K rang, at lunchtime, Dinner tonight? Had some people round last night, lot of chicken left over. Could I get some Marlboro lights. Oh and some tonic, and do you want dessert, I don’t, and what about cheese? I’ve got everything else. R rang and told about the Man in Moon play, and said he would bring a script round to K’s. Lovely, birds with stones. Got there at seven, and thought how lovely and blandly immaculate the house looked. I expected he got it together for last night, and used it again at once. Just like me…

A bright fire burning, all the eggs. etc. ready in the kitchen, all the fairly considerable washing up from the day before done – can this be my own slob?

It seems the last night guests were some of the transvestites. One was in full drag – ‘He’s a psychotherapist.’ He was ‘in my kilt.’ Yes, I see. Well, I hope it doesn’t grow on him. Interesting that he asked me the next day. R. came along briefly to give me the script, easy laughter by Robert Shearman. He’s given me very little idea what it’s about or how good it is…

R. gone. K told me that PRS cheque was £9,500, ‘Though about half of it was a mistake, and the publisher’s share.’ ‘How are you financially? Do you want some of it? I mentioned the mortgage, he brushed that aside, I would love some of it, but determined to ask only the £60 for the dressing-gown because that was my Christmas present. He wrote the cheque at once.

Chicken in a creamy sauce, delicious. How comic to remember that I taught him to make a casserole! I can just imagine how either of our families would tease him about that. Ugh.

We had a bit of talk about Sharron. I told him of her saying that she hadn’t rung him for a week, with a certain pride. He asked me whether he should get in touch, - I said, definitely not. She must choose when it will give her least pain. We talked of her B’day. He couldn’t remember it to the day, - ‘The first or second of December’ – hm. I can’t imagine ever forgetting D’s B’day. Not that I blame him. Sharron isn’t D. to him.

Much good talk. Pete S. has a song which has gone straight into the twenties. It’s obviously going to come to something and there are the other three things, which I still haven’t got straight. Ch.4 and Granda come into it!

There was a satisfying bit when he revealed that he knew the difference between the Angus acting and the real Angus. Yes, he has seen thro’ the defenses. He has more perception, at any rate about me, than any of my literary friends, or literate ones come to that. He’s brought a brown suede jacket, with all those flying strings of leather.

Tuesday November 8 1994

I forgot to record that I saw Ken B. in the South Bank Show, no doubt one of interminably many interviews over his Frankenstein Film. I suddenly saw that he hadn’t an ounce of poetry in his body. He has energy, charm, good sense, a modicum of sensibility within limits, and most gifts for getting things going, whatever they are. But poetry, no. In that he is like Larry.

The tickle turned into a dry cough, and in the a.m. I felt a bit funny. Feverish, I mean, so, as it was as dark and dim and damp and dank a day as any fan of November could desire, I stayed in bed or dressing gown all day.

John m. was in for once, and cooking two huge pots at 7.30. However, he said he was only getting ready, and did get out at 7.45.

Wednesday November 9 1994

Weather ditto. Cough ditto. Lunch at 3.0, after John M. had thankfully gone. Dinner two more pieces of dear K’s chicken. Delicious roast for an hour in butter. Why do people like meat underdone when the skin and fat is most delicious part but only when roast and crisp.

Turned the wireless on at 12.20 a.m, and heard these two sentences before turning it off. Fifteen thousand students protested over their grants being reduced by thirty per. cent.

A man is suing some airline for his wife and two sons being killed, - the damages of £75,000 being awarded for loss of her cooking, cleaning and care of him, and his remaining son, Kevin.

After dark, took three heavy carrier-bags of top rubble to the skip by the new house.

Thursday November 10 1994

I see some wretched footballer has been accused of taking a £40,000 bribe to lose a match. As he was, or perhaps is, a goalkeeper, this is a real possibility. The pathetic thing about ‘games’ and ‘sport’ is that you can cheat, with drugs or whatever, because it’s measurable. 1-nil. How can people be interested? I really don’t understand.

To the film tonight, ‘Corinna, Corinna’ – bad title. Whoopi Goldberg, was pretty good in the title role. Ray Liotta rather comic unintentionally as the windowed father falling in love with the black housekeeper. His very sinister aura kept suggesting that he would pull out a sub machinegun and kill everyone. He bravely kept adjusting his face and personality, but of course a natural light comedian would have been miles ahead before his first line. The film was too predictable, too sentimental, and too long. And of course I am quite strongly allergic to American kiddies.

On the way to pick up a taxi, saw an auction in a shop in Oxford street, at ten o’clock at night, of tape-decks, videos, sound-systems etc. etc. Why?

And why is Basmati rice more expensive at £1.19 than other rice? I thought we were happily exploiting downtrodden Indian peasants to our imperial advantage. More decline, ah well.

Friday November 11 1994

Children-fanciers often suggest that children are wise, untouched by etc. etc., freshness of bla bla. A tiny illustration why it wouldn’t be a good idea for childlike innocence to rule. A child slides down a chute into a swimming pool, carefully holding its nose, no doubt as instructed, but lets go just before it lands up in the water. I expect someone said, ‘Hold your nose as you go down the chute.’ I suppose many people prefer irrationality.

I put one or two bits of metal from the rubble into the dustbin, a pipe about foot long and three inches in diameter, and another bit of a size for the d’bin. The dustman carefully left them behind, out of, I presume, some sheer spite, because they could see they’d been part of the rubble. I took three more carrier-bagfuls to the skip at 10.45. Made myself fill another on the way back, so as to be one ahead for tomorrow. It’s hard work for an old man.

Saturday November 12 1994

Nasty night with my cough. Woke at 4.0 whooping like an asthmatic, not able to breathe. Leapt out of bed and walked about banging my chest until I had dropped my throat. Purely mechanical. Coughing, as it were, in one’s sleep. I looked at my throat and saw the usual, swallen uvula. It’s always been bigger than average. At the moment the end of it depends out of sight behind my tongue. A young man the other day told his doctor a snake came up in his mouth when he coughed. His uvula was five inches long. Many men would be glad of a prick that long.

Sunday November 13 1994

A manger in the NHS has actually said that doctors’ first duty was to their employers, not their patients. A BMA spokesman said that it was ‘Very worrying.’ Er, yes.

As if all those hideous dogs aren’t enough, there is now a ridiculous ‘campaign’ – oh, that word – to rehabilitate the Wolf, ‘Operation Wolf.’ Pictures of a rabid ‘dog’ with pin-point drug- addicted pupils. An ‘expert’ is wheeled on to testifying even more terrifying recommendations for the wolf. ‘They are very family-minded. And very sociable.’

Tonight filled two more bags with rubble, took the three to the skip, and filled another when I got back. I might finish tomorrow. It was very very mild, so much so that I went to the skip in a shirt and trousers, and felt no bite in the air whatever – it might have been September or even a damp August.

Monday November 14 1994

There now, I was just thinking perhaps I was interestingly feverish with my cough, when the weather forecast announced that yesterday was the warmest November day since 1947. Good gracious, I was twenty-one. Where was I? in Belfast, I suppose.

But my cough did give me a bad night by just going on tickling and coughing. Woke finally at 4.30, read, slept till 8.0, got the papers in, but was too tired to read them. Dozed off again, and woke at 1.30 feeling wrung out. Bother. Rang Sharron to put her off, as, if I have another ‘bad night’, as I suppose I will, I won’t be up to it, so it may seem suspect that I went to the pictures in the p.m. but I knew if I sat at home, I might nod off again, which would in its turn give me a worse night. Even as it was, walking up Tott-Court Rd., I would have turned back if I’d been nearer home. Perhaps I was in a vulnerable state, but both the film and people in front of me and the ushers and usherettes left much to be desired. The bad behavior of the staff is par for the course at that cinema – I really will write to the management this time. As for the four women in front of me, I usually go to an earlier perf. Here, at 5.30 were four fattish women. Each of them had a carton of popcorn, about a foot high and four inches square at the top, narrowing only slightly at the bottom. Their four left hands rhythmically lifted popcorn to mouth, popcorn to mouth. They began this with the main film, and so big were the cartons, that this lasted them through three-quarters of the film. At that point they produced ten inch-high cartons of milk- shake - I suppose - and were supported by them thro’ the last quarter of the film. Which was ‘Sleep With Me.’ A very unequal film, perhaps because there are six writers who each wrote a different bit, goodness, how bad Americans are at emotion, feeling, one liners, wisecracks, violence etc etc. Feeling, unpumped, unforced, no.

So those women had an hour and three quarters of uninterrupted eating.

On the way back, I brought some honey and lemon. Why should I pay £2.19 for honey and lemon Linctus at Boots? Why indeed, as I made up the drink, and it was delicious. Did it make a scrap of difference? No, not a scrap.

Tuesday November 15 1990

Slightly better night, tho’ the snare is you don’t just wake up, you have bad sleep. Up by lunch and shaved, but felt a bit wrung out, and only went to the shops.

Mary L. sent me a detective-story by Simon Williams. Read first fifty pages and was surprised. He has always seemed to me a rather empty superficial immensely amiable actor, but perhaps that was just the art that conceals art; not only is the book completely accurate and authentic in its treatment of actors’ lives and life backstage – and don’t you imagine that because he comes of an acting family, is married into one etc. etc. is any qualification for accuracy in such matters must think again – let alone, other authors – it’s really rather good. Apposite and useful quotation I never dreamed of him – never dreamed he’d read any of it. And his control of the book is better than I could begin to do. Well!

Finished clearing up the rubble. Swept the area, and put the dustbins back under the tree. So it now looks ‘respectable’. How little young people realise the importance of ‘looking’ respectable because it helps to keep the wicked down.

Wednesday November 16 1994

Still under the weather. Another choking passage. Dozed off at 9.40 and woke at 12.30, but the day was cheered up by the arrival of two cheques, for £15 and £195. So I can pay a bit to K.

Also in post the St. John’s magazine again, it must be immensely expensive to produce, and I have never paid any sort of subscription. Can it be worth their while? It is almost supernaturally dull. The only name I knew was Jimmy Cellan-Jones, who, it seems has won some TV prize. I am glad, as I haven’t heard of him for some time. He must be 63,4,5 and I can’t imagine him liking being ‘elderly.’ And it must be such a strain if you don’t.

Oh, science is so wonderful. It seems extra neurons in the brain, vital for intelligence etc. get destroyed in the womb for reasons that escape me, so now they strap a tape playing some complicated electronic patterns to pregnant stomachs. Mother: ‘He certainly seems to move a lot more.’ I bet he does. It’s probably K. trying to get away from the musak.

After dinner I noticed the light on in the front hall, a light which is on my bill. Went to turn it off and found I could not open my door, because there was a bicycle wedged between my door and the front door. It’s not lack of consideration, it’s just complete lack of imagination, such as I imagine, the Long Tall Thin Streak of Nothing and other members of the Bats Hockey Club, are by no means uniquely capable of.

Thursday November 19 1994

Bad night again, cough cough cough. Did get up in time to shave at 12.15. Lunch, sat, dozed, rested. Did not want to move, but made myself go to the launderette, a real effort, with two very heavy hold-alls. I had just got to the tube-station when there was a real crowd rush out of the station, that unmistakable rush when a crowd is genuinely avoiding something. Of course, it was the students from the college across Talgarth Rd. There has been trouble with them on their way home at this time, for a year or two, broken shop-windows and ‘lifting’ and so on. But this frightened me. They went back, at least thirty, I suppose, to taunt whoever it was, and then rushed out again. Had I been a little further on, I would have been knocked flying, with two hold-alls to unbalance me. There were five police, and I have to record that all the students were black. I must remember not to be about there in mid-afternoon. Oh, the cursed vitality of black people, what trouble it leads them into. Rang Andrew S. to see if he got the cheque. He was v. good about the labour troubles at the ENO. He’s one of the union representatives, rather unexpectedly. He’s been ‘celibate for 3 ½ years, except for that welder of 25 I met at the shopping centre – he’s just left, almost all married man.’

Friday November 20 1994

Still getting chokey turns, quite horrid. Evening with Sharron a complete success, I hope for her, too. She was looking lovely, and I mean, lovely. She was all in black with that beautiful squashy 1919ish black velvet hat. She brought wine, bath olives, cheese-cake, cheese, and some Covert Garden tomato soup. That is a particularly striking contrast with the usual tinned stuff, because it’s so simple and plain.

I think she’s turned some corner or other. She spoke quite often of having had more ideas than for some eighteen months. She’s been out and about. Rob, at the studio, one of ‘the owners’, has shown interest, I think, tho’ she didn’t claim it. Then there’s Andrew in the shop, and his boy friend, Mark. I think every deserted female lover needs some nice gay friends.

The thing I’m really pleased about is, that social life is developing naturally, not by compulsion. Tho’ I must say, the other girls don’t sound too special. Georgina, ‘call me George’, for instance. She is a dear girl and stayed till midnight. I was v. touched.

Saturday November 19 1994

Mary L. and I were talking about modern science, and what it hasn’t done. Let alone my ‘1 glass of water would drive the Queen Mary X times across the Atlantic.’ Where are all the treasures we were promised would stream from the moon-landing? Mary and Edna were talking of the impending landing, and E. was betraying a very marked lack of interest until M. was inspired to say ‘But, Edna, they might discover a new colour.’ Now this was quite the right idea for E. but her disappointment was all the more profound when it turned out, that far from a new colour, on the moon there was no colour.

As one might have expected, after all. Still a tickle and a cough and a choke.

Sunday November 20 1994

Bad choking attack at half past four. It’s a whooping, only able to take a breath in, because I suppose the throat is close with phlegm. A horrid feeling. But by seven or eight I seemed to be better, perhaps cured. I was able to cough full out instead of being afraid of choking or being sick, my last ditch hate. But during the later evening, sitting up in bed reading, that dryness in the back of the throat crept up again, and I had another window-throwing-open stifling spasm. Eventually stayed awake till 5.30 a.m. Now. And every time I try to sleep, there I am half choking, half-retching.

Monday November 21 1994

Found myself, raw-eyed and a little pickled in the dawn. Shaved and out of the house by ten - ! – to get my pension and something from the chemist. A nice seemingly sensible girl about 30, the ‘pharmacist’ as they call it now, suggested aspirin, gargled and swallowed to get the uvula and inflamed throat down, which I’d thought of, and stronger linctus, full of unknown chemicals, which I hadn’t.

So far having had four goes of both, they do seem to have helped. No insidious retching, tickle. But bed will test it. Put Tim off again for tomorrow.

Justin rang. He doesn’t want those green shelves. I’ll put them in that space in the bathroom. There are so many books needing shelves, in the wardrobe, for instance. The small gardening b’case from the cottage I’ve put in the drawing-room, to match the Trollope case.

Later.

Woke in the night whooping for breath, tore open the balcony doors for air. Nearly sick, and it’s tiring, because I get nervous of going to sleep.

The warmest November for 250 years.

Tuesday November 22 1994

All the same it was a better night than lately, as I did get quite a lot of sleep. Why is this throat going on so long, a fortnight so far today? Age, I suppose. It certainly makes my life a desert, because the ‘chokey’ feeling makes me unwilling to go far in case….

Justin came round as promised, took away a large box-file and a fair number of books, and left me a large handsome more or less new hold-all. Goodness they are wasteful these days. Well, those shelves….

Dear Tim rang and was sweet. Both he and Justin said in awed tones, ‘Haven’t you been to the doctor?’ For a cough? I expect I’d have had my throat removed by this time, or possibly whatever is the furthest organ from the throat. I shall be very chary of going to a doctor for anything that depends on ‘feel’. My sensitive throat is one thing. And crabs quite another. Those they can cure.

Some girl who’d been on some course or another, awareness, I expect, ‘I learnt about goodness and friendship and religion and things like that.’ Oh good.

Wednesday November 23 1994

They’ve put out tables of schools’ performances. It’s very unpopular with ‘educationalists’, of course, because they probably don’t believe in the concept of a fact. The lowest in terms of truancy, was the Whalley Range High School for girls. Ou sont les boring headmistresses of perfect integrity? Gone with the matrons, no doubt. Wasn’t that friend of Mummy and Daddy’s a teacher, Gertrude Cave? She lived in Whall. Range where Daddy had a church in the first war. She was certainly wholesome, high-necked dresses with modesty vests let in, and crisp put- downs.

Now in Whallry Range, one in five is unemployed and the region has the lowest number of owner-occupiers in Manchester.

In a programme on television about decorating, the presenter revealed a bookshelf paper. There on the shelves were Dante, Hugo, Shaw, Byron. Amusing. Where did S. say ‘If I am not a world classic in the turn of the century, I am nothing.’

In the p.m. attempted to keep awake by paying the insurance at the Alliance in the Fulham Rd. and going on to Airheads after, at 4.20. A bit silly, a bit loud, but a good bit young like Bill and Ted, and to be seen on that account. And Brendan Fraser does not disappoint as an actor of interest. He can look.

R. rang at last, not noticing how long it’s been. Very warm and sweet but vague as usual. We agreed not to go to the film, because of MC. Never mentioned Flash!

Thursday November 24 1994

Choking attack again last night. It’s simply that catarrh descends at the back of my throat, and I’m not awake to cough. I suppose.

Later.

Had another go of breathlessness while I was wiping my bum, quite suddenly. There seem to be no rules. And then anther at 11.45, just now, but it was much shorter, less convulsive.

But I see I must describe it more accurately, or I’m suffering from TB and advanced heart- disease. I suddenly catch my breath, and can only breathe out, sounding like a bellows and feeling really terrified. I find I must blunder outside for air, I suppose. The spasms of trying to breathe get quite violent, and cough is torn out beyond my control, turning into a retch, but nothing comes up. Gradually it settles down.

Now all this proves that it’s in my throat, and is an elaborate choke. I see now as I start to fall to pieces in my old age, that my throat has made me a bad traveller. I can just imagine what a stupid doctor would have made of it, - it must sound and look quite serious, and I certainly couldn’t speak or look during it. But there is no temperature, I eat, I shit, and feel perfectly well before and after. Because it’s mechanical. It’s probably the action of the extraordinary November on my catarrh. Indeed, for most of the day. I had felt better. I think my throat is still a bit sore and dry because of this choking.

Rang Hazel to say I must cry off my lunch on Sat. A great pity, I’d have loved to go to Pierre Victoire again, and to meet Tom within limits. Gosh, he’ll probably be hell in middle age, when they’re not there to restrain him.

Oh, and Justin came round to pick up a few more things. Still drifting.

Friday November 25 1994

Still very mild, 61º, felt better – I think. Did nothing all the same.

Oh, and the chokiness, - wind comes into it. After a ‘spasm’, many varied belches and farts, but of course that may be just the gulping of breath.

In the p.m. had to pay the Alliance, and so went to see ‘Airheads’ at – Interesting, I’m light headed after four nights or less without sleep. I must watch for more serious signs. I suddenly thought that’s what I’d done this p.m., because I didn’t remember writing about it.

Sat on the sofa with the television set off and on, the whole night. Oddly it didn’t seem long.

Saturday November 26 1994

I felt not exactly fresh, but impatient. As I hadn’t been in bed all night, I could hardly sleep in, I thought I must get something new to deal with it. Rang the doctor, - it’s the emergency only morning. We established briskly, the receptionist, and I, that I wasn’t an emergency. Dr. Baker can’t see me till Dec 8! And I bet he’s upset about the way his practice is going. So I gave that up for the time being, and set off for the Ken. High St. branch of Boots. Spoke to the ‘pharmacy’ manager, a pleasant thirty-ish girl. She listened to my ‘history’ – two short sentences – without much remark tho’ some concern. (I think I’m dying while fighting for breath, but I like to have it casually confirmed that I’m not). She found me yet another ‘linctus’ but at least it did mention ‘dissolving stubborn mucus’ and sinus and catarrh. So will see. Certainly today it has all been a bit better. I haven’t felt so much preoccupied with my throat, and only a sip or two of water, instead of one every few minutes and my poor dry throat.

Did my shopping at Ken. Safeway, came back here and faced another long night, because, last night, I nodded off about 11.45 only for few minutes, and woke up, gasping and painful. It took a bit longer to get back, which gave me the impetus for this a.m. I feel like a junior house- doctor. So far, I have not had a day without a painful gasping for air. Why now? I suppose, with age, the margins get less. Now, sitting here at 9.40, I feel exactly as usual. But if I nodded off, would I…

Later.

Felt that faint claustrophobia of the early hours of the morning, my cough and being trapped…. Went out twice for a walk around the ‘block’. I think the sound of one of my favorite songs sent me out on the first one at 3.15 a.m.

‘It’s very clear Our love is here, To stay. Not for a year, Forever and a day.

I think K. might like the music. You never know with fucking Beethoven.

No activity at all, except for two cars in the 25 mins, and to my pleasure and surprise, that bird singing again at the Voysey corner, in the tree in the cemetery. A blackbird, probably, but it sounded more silvery, like a song-thrush. It sang, for over an hour, as if it were April, at lunchtime. I wish I could remember when I heard it before, and whether it was exceptionally warm then. It is now certain that this is the warmest November since 1818. On the second walk, I passed a young man in specs. We looked at one and another suspiciously, and at the same moment decided not to mug each other.

There was one other light on in my little bit, as there often is when I look out, the plumpish youngish man who talks motorbikes with a Man Who Plays etc. What does he do up there? Surely not read? Build miniature motorbikes? Play blackbird records?

Sunday November 27 1994

Still v. mild, very tired or rather, sleepy. Cat napped all day. At 6.30 a.m. had a coffee and five little cold new potatoes. Put some porridge on. At 8.15 had two goes at the porridge. At 9.45 two pieces of hot toast and honey. Only a crumb went in the wrong way, my throat closed again, and there I was wheezing on the balcony again. I suppose it’ll go as it came. But it is dispiriting it going on so long, and waking every morning with a very painful swallow. I expect to cure myself.

Monday November 28 1994

Finished Mother Of Oscar. Nothing extra as a book, but with some interesting new bits here and there. However, she does not merit a book on her own, and the new ‘bits’ could have been incorporated in Ellman’s too imperial book with profit.

Told Hazel yesterday that I was going to the doctor today, but didn’t. You have to be there by 8.30.

Why do I always come over drowsy about 5.30?

K rang. Sorry he hadn’t been in touch. He’s been so busy, and going on being so. Told him of Sharron’s evening and R’s call. He asked when Sharron’s b’day was… he’s spent all the PRS on a new mixing desk, £5000. Well, it’s one of the tools of his trade. I said I wouldn’t see him this week till the throat was better. I am still choking and losing my breath.

Tuesday November 29 1994

So I did go to the doctor at last. Did I say that if I wanted an appointment with my own doctor, December 8th was the earliest, and that was a few days ago. The open clinic began at 8.30. It said, outside, but inside, there were appts. Until 9.30, when the free-for-all began. I can’t say I saw any sign of decay or disarray. Oh yes, the carpet was worn, and the whole place like a series of portakabins in a nice Victorian house, next to a motorway. But otherwise I had no complaint.

I spoke to the middle-aged receptionist, rather sour-faced, as they always are. A little later, I saw her searching for my file, in the large bank of filing-drawers, with no success. She came up to me and said accusingly, ‘When did you last come here?’ was it sometime ago?’ I apologised for not having been ill often enough. Eventually she went to the cupboard, and instead of producing a twoinch file like everyone else, she gave me a brown envelope. My own doctor went back and forth, but I was sent to Dr.Pett, a nice little woman, slight, rather washed out looking at my throat, said yes, I had got a large uvula, took a swab, and gave me twenty penicillin tablets. She was nearly obliged to prescribe sal volatile for herself when she realised, from my brown envelope, that I’d never had any drugs before. So odd in my life now, I got back here about 9.45a.m. with a whole day in front of me….

Forgot to record that I went to see ‘Dear Diary’ on Monday at the Coronet at N.Hill, I was rather tired, and was kept hard at it trying to hold my eyelids up. It might have happened with any film, but I think ‘D.D’ is a bit thin and inchoate, odd film for the Coronet. Should have been at The Gate.

Going back to Wilde for a moment, I keep forgetting that he was actually engaged to Florence Balcombe, who afterwards married Bram Stoker, who wrote Dracula….

Wednesday November 30 1994

Big feature on the gay night-club Heaven. Name of general manager, David Inches. Wrapped up that Art Deco enamel tie-pin for Sharron’s b’day. The little purple jewel-box has the mark of a jeweler from Porthcawl. As far as I know, no one I have ever heard of, much less met, has been to Porthcawl. Wrapped it first in a very pretty lace hanky of D’s, and a card of V. Leigh, and one of those old unfolding picture cards of Waveham, before ’14. All the street-scenes are undiluted beauty.

Walked from Angel and back, and shopped at Sainsbury’s, a rare experience now, I couldn’t see much difference in the food. The superiority of the design and packaging did not strike me as forcibly as it used to. Indeed the colour of the carrier-bags was rather dreary. I bought some halibut, and wasn’t impressed with that either, it didn’t have that brilliant gleaming white that flakes should have, specially when baked.

Thursday December 1 1994

Thought of Sharron being thirty, and unhappy. I did not ask her here, partly because she’s just been, partly because she may find it painful here, where she’s been so often with him, and would be surrounded with his photos, partly because she must decide her life now. I wish I was really better, - it does stop me doing things. Company makes me choke more, - of course.

Friday December 2 1994

In the p.m. to ‘Cronos’, a new vampire film, by a ‘first-time’ director, Mexican. Beautifully done, a bit boring but I’m still a bit low, so it must be me.

Saturday December 3 1994

Sore throat came on again rather, this evening. Rang Dr. Pett as directed to tell her how the pills were going, and found nothing but answering machines over the weekend. Simple of me, I suppose.

Later.

Lay down at 1.15 woke up at 1.45, choking for air, my throat closed with phlegm. Sat up in drawing-room until I took the Sunday papers back to bed.

Sunday December 4 1994

When, after reading them, I dozed off and woke chocking for etc. Tiresome, as the choking is superficial and lasts now about four or five breaths, but is not too superficial to wake me.

Oh, Roy rang yesterday and asked me to diner the week after next. Still hasn’t rewritten the RSC play. I think he’s foolish – it will push the play to the next schedule.

Sharron rang to thank me sweetly for my present. K. gave her a mountain-bike. It seems her old one had conked out and she needs it to get to work. Good for him, and she doesn’t seem to have found it as a pay-off as a lesser girl might.

On some award ceremony, Spike Milligan was give a lifetime achievement award. Coming towards the microphone, wiping his eyes with a large white hanky, he said, ‘About time, too.’ Then someone read out a personal letter from Prince Charles, ‘I grew up with the Goons,… great admirer….etc etc.’ ‘Groveling little bastard’ growled Spike, they hurried on to the award. He took it. The applause died down, ‘I’m not going to thank anyone, because I did it all on my own.’

What a world I’ve lived into! The HMV slogan this year is ‘Everything but silence for Christmas.’ Isn’t that horrible?

And the text of a card I sent to K. who’ll feel it too.

Monday December 5 1994

So here I am reading after having S to lunch, from a call on Sat. I feel so much better for having to do it. There is always a moment in getting over something, when you need to take a leap.

He launched on to a recital of his movements. He was flown to San Francisco for one morning to record the part of the Old Green Grass-Hopper in Roald Dahl’s, James and the Giant Peach, for Disney. I think he’s got more to do on that. When he got back, he flew off to Berlin to do eight or ten days on a film of Conrad’s Victory. I’d never heard the director’s name, and can’t remember it now. He had one night free, and said to them that he must try and see some theatre, ‘Oh,’ they said, ‘This is a revival, so intense, so relevant etc etc.’ Not to be missed. So he went, a third of the way into the first Act, he realised he was watching White Horse Inn. It was doubly funny, because it was White Horse Inn that he went to see done by the Scarborough Operatic Society, when he was researching the Charles Laughton. Now, of course, it is funny, and no doubt WHI is pretty worthless. But ‘Viennese Operetta’ does still need careful valuation. They were eviscerated for the English consumption. I think the music is coming to be properly valued, Leher etc., and perhaps the books and libretti need looking at, having been dumped for the feeble facetiousness of English mus. com. over the thirty years from 1910-40.

When he got back from Berlin, he flew to Tokyo to do pre-publicity for Carmen Jones. He did thirty-six interviews in three-days. Of course, interpreters loom large. One was very good, listened intently, took copious notes, and spoke for the same length of time as him. The other was a bit worrying, since he couldn’t feel quite sure that she understood Japanese… he left Tokyo on Saturday night and arrived in Los Angeles on Saturday morning… I thought that would suit him very well, doing twice as much as… so he saw a lot of people and agents, and flew to New York and saw a lot of people and agents….. Since he got back ten? days ago, he’s recorded someone’s diaries – Tinnenbuam? No, I got him to repeat it, but didn’t catch it. He’s now recording Tom Holt’s couple of novels, and next week the Sonnets – ‘I wasn’t satisfied with the last time.’ – er, no. He told me Kathleen Tynan of whom he’s fond, is dying, ‘She had a breast off, some time ago, and now it’s two or three months, she has sometimes an abstracted look, as if she’s concentrating on something else.’

‘I’m all right now, so I want to give you some money. What’s the best way?’

Tuesday December 6 1994

To lunch with John N. at Café Pelican. It hasn’t changed much – just some more or less superficial redecoration. It wasn’t at all full – at 1.15, and most of the full tables were, as I had expected, dreary business-men. John was right at the back, in a sea of empty tables. I like that, tho’ many wouldn’t. Waiter sly and camp as usual. Food indifferent. The carrot and coriander soup was bland, and for me, the lamb steaks was too thin, and tough in places, which is an achievement for lamb. Sauce nothing in particular, likewise veg. John is v. good at complaining, did so without making a row, and the waiter came back and said there would be no charge. Oh, and there were no ices on the menu, only sorbets. My strawberry sorbet was three globes of an unattractive mottled brick colour, on a pat of cheap jam, ornamented with sprigs of mint, and some very thin slivers of straws. It was brimming over the very tall very shallow very narrow glass, and I was given a dessert-spoon to eat it with.

Lovely chats. He’s on the way to a cold, too. The situation at the ENO has been improved by the business picking up really well. We talked again of his V&A interview and going to look at my suit for good luck. I said ‘What a good thing, it’s in a glass case, otherwise the pilgrims lips would by now have worn the turnups to shreds.’

He’d had dinner with Sian Thomas, and a most interesting talk about K, not just a passing remark or two, but a talk, ‘He sent me such a lovely letter, and I’m ashamed I haven’t answered it.’ She was most interested to hear of K. being nine years with Sharron. ‘I’m surprised.’ I think she thought he was gay, through I’m not clear about that, as she was one of only two girls he didn’t sleep with in his year. She said, with great enthusiasm, that K was the only student to embrace and come to terms with the electronic revolution and future, and she admired him tremendously for that.

She’s married to a mad professor of 62 and has a three-year old son. Well.

Bought two of these notebooks, one marked £3.49 and other £3.50.

Wednesday December 7 1994

Felt really better yesterday and today, and that my throat was behind me, except for a bit of catarrh.

And then I slipped on a bit of oil which my lodger, I take it, had kindly left on the kitchen floor. I didn’t fall and didn’t think I’d done anything, but I had sprained my knee or some muscles behind the knee, and by now it’s very painful. Isn’t it maddening? Just as I was better, I’ve something else to remind me I’m ageing. I don’t suppose my slip would have done more than give me a passing twinge thirty years ago.

Thursday December 8 1994

I had to take a stick to crawl to the shops. I could only dot and carry one, and a trip to H’Smith took more or less an hour. So fascinating. Because one doesn’t feel any older inside, one expects someone to protest and say ‘You can’t use a stick.’ But no one gave a second glance at the old thing tottering along.

An odd little flood of ‘phone calls. Mary L, Janet, Tim, Roy (Twice), and Sharron (twice) asking for 1994 in Roman figures.

The phone bill arrived, £91 odd, some thirty cheaper than last Justin time! Wrote to John M. about his calls and share, and meant to drop it down there and forgot. Meanwhile there was a message on the machine from ‘Chris’, who I take to be John M’s previous landlord. He rang four or five times earlier on in a mounting crescendo of irritation wanting his telephone-bill- share paid. When J.M. got up to date with me, I presumed, as silence had fallen, that he’d paid Chris as well. But no, a very angry Chris was demanding payment again. I wrote the message down, and in my note to John, said ‘What do you think this makes me feel? Am I going to take three months to get my ‘phone money? I ‘sort of’ thought I’d put the bill down there, I hadn’t, but it scarcely mattered, because my note sparked a really rather dotty letter, of great defensiveness, ‘I eat, and perhaps I shouldn’t. £73 a week… I don’t use four-letter words, I have been well-brought up…’ Coo.

Friday December 9 1994

Put the ‘phone bill down! The rent was on the dining-table, with £10 in coins. Bottom of the barrel? Poor little sod.

In the p.m. despite leg, determined to go to the pictures. After all, I can’t sit here on the sofa half the night and the whole day every day. So I went to the Metro, dot and carrying one in the hideous Christmas Crowds. The real horror of life, is the ‘ordinary family’ let loose on London, - it’s not called ‘nuclear’ for nothing. The Cuban film ‘Strawberry and Chocolate.’ Mildly interesting. One of the two main characters like Patrick Swayze, or William Hurt, camping it up, was really accomplished and his exaction gave me pleasure but it was a thin film.

Saturday December 10 1994

The ‘phone money was there with a defiant little note just saying Phone Money. Is it his food money? Perhaps, but he must be realistic. And would I have had it so promptly without my note? I doubt it.

This is a very depressing time of the year to me. The days getting shorter, and it seems to me, darker all the time. I think the worst symbol of it is the advertising on television and the toys that are intolerably cheap and commonplace, except in price.

It is still quite bewildering to me and people like me, that anyone would go and sit in the open in December to watch a rugger-match, let alone pay. England it seems won 60 -19 against Canada and still the commentators um and ah. How wonderful not to care about sports for a second.

Went downstairs, after my bath and gin. Using both feet for the first time since Wed. A treat, how simple treats become.

At the shops I wandered round Books Etc. thinking I might buy a couple of books to pass Christmas with. I couldn’t find a thing to indulge myself with. Ken T’s letters, yes, but they weren’t there, or in Smith’s or Hammett’s. I suppose it’s not surprising, but it makes me even less hopeful about D’s letters or my ‘memoirs’(sic). One with Nineveh and Tyre isn’t in it.

Sunday December 11 1994

Leg rather better, but fought for breath twice. Throat still a bit phlegmy. ‘Fought for breath’ sounds so serious and dramatic – it’s just a tic.

Half thought K might ring as he said he might have a night, but I’m not surprised. It would be nice to see him before Christmas. R. did ring back, and I knew it. Flash hasn’t been here for three months for nothing. He and Zöe have split up. I bet she’s left him. It’s interesting that she never embraced us, as if she knew. I’ve always liked her, but never thought she was going to be a part of my life, as I did with Sharron, She’s not quite our sort, I don’t know why, really.

Monday December 12 1994

Still no money from S.! How grasping I must seem, but it isn’t that, it’s just that someone so spontaneous and dynamic should wait a week…. I’m surprised that he didn’t write the cheque then and there.

In the p.m. to the Fulham cinema to see The Punk and The Princess. It could have been delightful, - The punk, Charlie Creed-Miles, was charming – Romeo and Juliet – but it was full of infelicities and absurdities. I mean R&J at The Gate, - and it was the real Gate – put on by a touring co. closing early because the angel withdrew his backing on the second Thursday – mean, really. I fear a lot of the unreality came from the director/writer/producer Mike Sarne. It exhaled the sad air of a middle aged sixties man, ‘keeping up’, and missing a variety of targets.

The combination of pre-Christmas and the film, gave me, for the very first time, believe it or not, the cinema entirely to myself for the last third.

Tuesday December 13 1994

Never let me say that modern inventions are a curse – K. rang, by mistake. He pressed that very flattering first button, and got me. Very useful, as I had forgotten to tell him about Sian Edwards’ comments, and also I wanted to ask him whether he’d have time to do a cassette of our Janet Austin for Hazel. ‘Have you got a copy?’ ‘Well, I don’t know and expect it’s in the loft.’ He said he was going to Sharr’s show. I left for it at 5.15ish, so as to get there at 6ish and leave after twenty mins or so. I needed my stick, but took my umbrella instead to look better. It has been a bright sunny day here, but when I got out at Angel, icy and pouring. How often I’ve found north London different. It’s a ten-minute walk at least to Wharf-studios, and I had not allowed for having to have my umbrella up. By the time I’d got there, my leg was sore. I went in through that – what do you call it? the metal awning that you push up from the floor. In the big studio there were a few people round a table with wine and canapés on. I called to Sharron, and thought I’d have to go down there and meet the three or four people there, which would spin it out beyond my leg’s capacity. But no, she came back up and took me to her room, where there were also glasses and wine.

She’d tidied up, and lit it carefully. Opposite the door were two glass-cases with the jewelry in, and on the work-bench were the clocks, and there were the serried glasses and bottles. It felt like a dressing-room to me. I was able to look at the jewelry carefully and quietly, and alone with her. I started to leave at twenty-five-past-six and we met two quite personable young men on the balcony who greeted her affectionately one of them wearing a pirate hanky? Ex-fellow students, I suppose, but encouraging all the same. I looked down into the big studio, and murmured, ‘Point out Rob to me.’ ‘In the blue jumper.’ Well, quite sufficiently dark, a bit cruel-looking! Or rather ego and ruthless – just enough to be interesting and not enough to be nasty.

And she was looking beautiful, in tailored black velvet jacket with big buttons, double-breasted. She’s slimmer from grief and looks terrific. She introduced me to the two youngsters, ‘This is Angus,’ I do like the ease of their manners. Think of the Slades’ awkwardness.

On my way home struggled up to Sainsbury. I wish my Safeway were a bit more upmarket. Here were rows of packaged pheasant marked cock or hen, half-ducks, quail etc etc, plenty of liver and calves’ liver, and so on. Brought two artichokes, a pheasant and some whisky, leg pretty painful, - rest is obviously the thing.

Jolly telephone talk with Justin. He is just right for the charts, but, poor boy, is probably useless for anything else.

Wednesday December 14 1994

I wonder why I always remember the anniv. of the abdication. I don’t think it made any particular impression on me.

Was delighted to find I’d slept in till nearly eight, perhaps at last my throat is really recovering, and the chokiness getting less potent at waking me up.

I never fail to pick up anything useful. Paper-clips lie everywhere in the post office, where I went to pay the £91 ‘phone bill. In the Halifax there was a good big bulldog clip going begging, and on the way out of the tube, there was a white something with ‘Sport’ on it. I popped it in my pocket, - when I got home, - trunks? Jock-strap? – turned out to be a knee support, just washed. I’m wearing it now on my bad knee. Oddly comforting.

Felix rang! to ask if I’d consider selling the rights of Free As Air.

Thursday December 15 1994

Leg still rather poor but getting gradually better.

To film in the p.m. ‘The River Wild’, Meryl Streep and Kevin Bacon. M.S. so accomplished on the surface but dead inside somewhere. She also smiles and laughs in a quite random way, an American trait, certainly, but much intensified in her. Had I been one of the criminals I would have shot her at once from irritation at that by itself. Went for a pee after, and had a rather jolly talk with Tom Conti, started by him. Told me the Vampire film which is next week, is not all that good, ‘The best of it is more or less in the trailer.’

Friday December 16 1994

‘England has 65000 pubs.’ Is that true? It seems a lot. It seems years since I was last in one – never cared for them much. I never want casual encounters.

It’s nine years since Mrs. Endean died. I like to think of her because I liked her within limits, and because I am probably the only person who ever does think about her.

S. did send his present, ‘Part one’, as he called it ‘because the accountant wants it that way, God knows why.’ £250 the dear thing. It was accompanied by a card of a font taken in the bright light that recalled that glossy-papered brochure entitled 1934, our first year at St. George’s by Rev. J. M. Paid it in at once, and drew out £50. R. rang and arranged to come round tomorrow.

Saturday December 17 1994

Leg better at first, but a crawl to the shops brought the pain back. Bought two goodish bots of wine for myself, Ponilly Fuisse and XX.

R. arrived at about 6.30, as I was about to get in the bath, and went straight upstairs to clean out Flash, after I’d given him a hug, said Are you all right? he said yes, and we never mentioned Zöe again. We had an ordinary evening in the best meaning of the word. I think he is going to leave Flash here for good. Hm.

Asked me round on Boxing Day, ‘Because everyone will be away. It won’t be much.’ Yes, I do see, poor R. I expect he has been ‘too cautious and secretive.’

Sunday December 18 1994

Really cold. Did I say that my left foot swelled up, all puffy round the ankle, after being scratched to death by my other foot? Well, I was amused to realise that it was probably the tightness of the knee-bandage that had done it. K rang shortly on Friday, by the way, to arrange – he thinks he can manage Friday, before he goes to Liverpool the next day. Lovely. And to Ibiza on 31st. Not so lovely.

Monday December 19 1994

Cold. To round of debt-paying, and pension collection, continuing my exciting life.

Firmly bought Ken T’s letters. He’s been dead fourteen years – same age as me, and more alive than most people. Cigs really did kill him, because he had poor lungs to start with. I’d forgotten Hazel was at school with him and knew him well. An uncomfortable creature really, except his few great years as a critic. Oxford sometimes has a lot to answer for.

Prepared for the taxman tomorrow.

Tuesday December 20 1994

Got myself to Charles House on limping leg. Saw one of the polite ladies at the big desk in the carpeted ‘office’. I was twenty minutes early, but he came down to me see me all the same, and I was out by quarter past eleven. He was a very neatly made pale brown polite Indian? called Kandahar. It was painless, and I hope the future will be equally so. I am sick of the mention of the word.

In the p.m. to the MGM Tott-Court Rd. for a second look at ‘Priscilla.’ There was literally nothing else I could have sat through once, - I need fun after the taxman – and I enjoyed it again thoroughly. It’s getting colder. Janet asked me to dinner after the Thursday film.

Wednesday December 21 1994

Colder. I shopped, ate, drank and read. R. rang, no, I rang him, and said shall we go to a film before, on Bank Holiday night. He said he wasn’t sure it was on, he wasn’t sure of anything just now. We exchanged a few sentences, and that was it. I’ve never heard him sound so low, and have never experienced him being negative like that. He is too afraid of not being liked to be negative, so obviously he is down indeed. I cannot now quite recall whether he told me originally that he and Zöe were completely finished, or whether it wasn’t quite final. Perhaps it is now. I am relieved really, as I don’t like going out on Bank Holiday evenings.

Oh Hazel told me they were having a hole in their thatched roof mended, £1500. Last year the ridge was done, £1800. Do you know, I’d forgotten the thatch entirely.

Thursday December 22 1994

Janet rang in a.m. to cancel dinner, as she’s feeling fluey. She didn’t stay for the film, Interview With a Vampire. She was lucky, as it was alternately tedious and ludicrous, and at two hours, about three-quarters too long. Of course it looked beautiful, and of course the little girl, being American, was ghastly.

The two boys didn’t do badly, considering how bad American actors are at wearing costume and dealing with stylized dialogue, in this case, with the merest fustian. Poor little Tom Cruise made a brave effort and at least didn’t make a fool of himself. Brad Pitt, within the short comings of the film, did not cause me to change my opinion that he is the most gifted actor of his generation in America. His clothes were á point, and when you consider the spectacular slob of Kalifornia, which most American actors achieve whatever they play, one sees his point. What a beautiful light perfectly proportioned figure he has! What a blessing is a bit of height!

Back at home the guinea-fowl cold. Delicious, much nicer than most pheasants I’ve had lately.

Earlier today rang K. to say was tomorrow still on? It is, and pleasant arrangements made. I said I’d cook. He will buy. Told him about R. Oh, the rest.

Friday December 23 1994

Will write more fully tomorrow. As lovely an evening as I’ve ever had. He said yesterday he had lots to finish, and might have to work on Sat. morn ‘Depending on how good a time we have.’ ‘Well, we’d better not have a good time.’ But we did. Despite a pathetic call from R that he’d been badly burgled, it was a radiant evening – perhaps disgracefully that highlighted it. He said early on, ‘That’s your only present.’ A delicious bit of cheese with pesto insertions, - so like him, just the one I keep wanting Sharron to give me again, but she gets it a bit wrong and gives me gorgonzola, and he also said he’s been so busy he hasn’t done any cards or presents for anyone. And then came back downstairs with a big card, on card, drawn by him, with snowmen saying ‘Dearest Angus, Happy Christmas, your love and support is paramount in my life, Love Kevin.’

Not quiet grammatical, but enough to take me through the next year.

Saturday December 24 1994

And life, too, come to that.

A fifteen-year old mother’s month old child was savaged to death by family bull-terrier. The dog ‘may’ be destroyed. What about the mother, and her mother?

The house is empty. The people upstairs are away, until after the New Year, I hope, and the lodger has vanished. That blessed Christmas silence has begun to fall, almost the only thing I like about the season. And the only person I want to see is away.

Sunday December 25 1994

In Queens speech, there was a most moving picture of the Moscow Cathedra, a magical building. Just towards the end, Sharron rang, so dearly, to wish me a happy Christmas, and I had to put her off. Now this was partly because I do retain a loyalty to the Queens speech, and the crown. After all, I am the same age. But really it was because I always ring L’pool exactly at the end of the speech in case. In case of Marjorie being poised at the ‘phone etc. There he was. ‘Everything all right?’ ‘No.’ Nice chat to Marjorie.

R. rang later, and seemed calmer and more resigned. But he gave me a bleaker picture of his burglary. He thinks he disturbed the burglar – singular, as the police now think – who had put some things out on each landing, left some of them, and may come back. It seems there was a bicycle pulled against the front door, to give him a warning. (He’d come through the kitchen window). A curious inconsistency in R’s story. If he started at the top – R’s room was the most ‘gone’ over – and worked downwards, how did he get past R, coming in on the ground floor? Now I’m expect it’s all right, but I have to say I wouldn’t be surprised to find that R. would want to get rid of the computer disc which had nothing about Cambridge on it, perhaps. But I think I would be surprised that he’d hurt anyone else. Hm. It’s a sign that I think him unstable.

Monday December 26 1994

At K’s.

My dinner last night was nice, by the way. Guinea-foul again. Chestnuts. And I mean nice, nicely judged.

Mary L. rang this morning to say ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ in her usual heavy-handed style. But she did sound really ill. Would I go tomorrow to get her prescription? She had had the doctor round today! and was much worse than the other day, I suppose. So that she couldn’t even ‘wrap up and get a mini and get the prescription’, as she had said she would, on an old dog- eared prescription. How devoted she is to drugs, but not to doctors, a bit unusual for hypochondriacs. So of course, I said I would do it, thought I hadn’t shaved, and John Osborne had died and I didn’t care, and then suddenly I felt I must go to K’s to look after the equipment. It was purely the result of R’s further description of the burglary. I felt guilty.

Got here at 6.30 and startled Sharron out of her wits. She’d said she’s feed the cat, but I thought it’d be on her way to her mother’s. She left and I settled in, lit the fire, put the potatoes on, - feeling again that oddness of being in someone’s house when they’re not there. In the studio saw the Jane Austin tapes and rang L’pool to ask if I should post them. Got Nigel, and regretted it. ‘K is next door and will ring back.’ I tried to listen for the ‘phone but short of sitting by it in the cold studio… I hadn’t taken anything but food so sat up on the sofa, most uncomfortably as it did not suit my leg. It’s very odd, my leg was almost painless the day I came over here, I never even dozed, and after a bit, sat at the dining table and finished the last half of Tynan’s letters, until the dawn. (Oh I’m so glad we’re past the shortest day.) I can’t say I think even the best letters as good as all that, and the first thing to say, is that the book should be half, if not a third, of its present size. To me, he went steadily downhill after he gave up dramatic criticism. Everything he writes about politics is not only rather dull but shows very poor judgment. In fact, most of what he writes about the National shows poor political judgment. Only when he’s talking about casting, and to a certain extent, choice of plays, is he on sure ground. Curious coarse streak somewhere, (and I don’t mean the porn or the whipping) very evident in the early love-letters. It’s odd to hear that slightly epicene gaunt figure signing himself Daddy. Do you know, there aren’t even many good jokes.

So John Osborne is dead. He used to be years younger than me in 1956, but it seems he was only three years younger and is dead at 65. We never thought him the white hope of the English theatre. ‘Look Back’ is quite a clumsy play, as a play consisting largely of excuses for the leading character to embark on another monologue. One of them is proceeded by ‘I don’t think I’ve told you this before, have I?’ and odd lapses for an actor. The very unconvincing second girl is an actress, and announces at one point that she’s been sent a script from Alexandra, Birmingham. D. murmured ‘What on earth is Derek Salberg thinking of?’ Because of course that sort of rep. never sent scripts. But the quality of writing was high, and partly accounts for L.B. hitting the literary weeklies and so on in a way that no other new play had in my time – I was 30. Of course we saw the secret of its success almost at once – D said Why has no-one said how funny it is? By the way, we were riveted, early on, when Alan Bates casually took his trousers and gave them to Mary Ure to iron, two middle-aged ladies got up and walked out. The key-word is ‘casually’. Had he dropped his trousers and screamed, they would have roared. Of his later work, I liked West Of Suez and whatever that one was, with Paul Scofield and co, in a hotel bedroom – oh yes, Hotel in Amsterdam. But Luther and such, I thought little of. The infamous Paul Slickey, which I saw at a matinee at Bournemouth, was simply inept. He had no gifts for lyric-writing and no musical imagination. As for its being too shocking, well, it didn’t shock the b’mouth matinee – it simply bored them. Oh, it’s getting light, I can’t quite remember when the tube starts, but I think it’s about seven. I’ll go home, have some bacon and egg, oh…. and have a bit of a snooze over the papers, and take my painful leg over to Willesden Green. So it’s now

Monday, no, Tuesday December 27 1994

And I did go home, and have bacon and egg, oh so good, and at quarter past ten set off in the icy rain, to Willesden Green. The only bright spot was to find the chemist by the station open. Mary had said the doctor had said ‘Bliss in Willesden Lane.’ How far might it have been? So I set out to walk in the rain with my knee really hurting over some of the most broken and puddle-strewn pavement in London. The quarter of an hour’s walk to M.L. She was looking ill, rather grey- yellow, saying her bronchitis was lower down, and she’d been sick. Hm, Well, she’s rather sallow by nature. She signed the prescription and I trudged the quarter of an hour back to ML, and then back to the tube station. I’d taken a packet of sugar-snap peas, - ‘What are these?’ I explained how they had a taste of real peas, and only took four or five minutes, and – ‘You know I’m not eating now…’

I got back and had lunch and a long snooze on the sofa, and felt less light headed.

The new director, Quentin Tarantino, said on some programme that violence has no moral weight any more than tap-dancing had moral weight for Stanly Donen. And then you wonder why I don’t go and see Pulp Fiction.

Wednesday December 29 1994

Warmer, thank god, tho’ wetter.

A doctor in St. John’s wood, pretty coloured woman, was murdered. How little stir it makes now. An idiot passer-by-said ‘Animals don’t murder at Christmas.’

I wonder how many people I know go so long without seeing anyone. I don’t think I mind. As D said of the cottage, ‘(Solitude) is very moreish.’

This year Gordon’s have put out a bottle of gin and of tonic tight together in a bit of clingfilm. I opened it on Friday, and he said, ‘Oh, I wanted to do that.’ Not very big sometimes.

Thursday December 29 1994

Decided I could not sit in the house yet another day despite my leg, so decided to try the newly done-up Hammersmith cinema, now part of the MGM chain. Despite neon and new carpets, it still looks rather tacky, at least the foyer does. I didn’t get any further, as the four o’clock perf. was cancelled. There seemed to be no reason, and the b.o. clerk resumed his conversation. I limped to Ravenscourt Pk. Station, having limped all the way there. Saw that Café Pasta branch had closed, our branch at Chiswick…whenever I went there, at one time comparatively often, and the last time with R and Zoë, it seemed to be doing as well as the others. But that stretch of Kings St. can kill any thing civilised. What is either side of that stretch? A lot of council estates, I suppose.

Awful storms in West Country, so rang Hazel to see if they were all right. They have a stream running through the garden which might well be running thro’ the house. They’re all right, but it’s still the septic-tank, which the National trust should put right and hasn’t. Poor Geoffrey emptied a hundred gallons out of it yesterday.

Friday December 30 1994

I had one of those strange vivid little glimpses into someone else’s ruined life today. I was coming out of Hammersmith tube into the shopping mall (sic) when I saw that small bright happy women, about my age, who used to work as cashier in the newsagents at the corner. Our relationship was composed of buying a piece of chocolate, paying the newspaper bill, the weather, any local happenings – ‘Oh, those school-children.’ – and later chat, when she and her husband had retired, obviously very happily, to a new place with more of a garden, between Ravenscourt Park and Turnham Green. As she came towards me, I said, ‘Oh, happy new year.’ And on ‘Year’, I knew it would not be happy for her. She was smaller, no longer bright and happy, with big red eyes. Her husband had a stroke last April, - ‘he’d never been ill before.’ – he had his lunch and his tea, - she remembered to say ‘his meal in the evening’, because she thought tea wouldn’t mean the same, and it wouldn’t – then he complained of a headache and went to bed. In the middle of the night, about three, she was woken up by him ‘thrashing about’, to find him paralysed down his right side and unable to speak. She ventured to ring her doctor, whose first words were ‘Why are you ringing me at this time of night?’ ‘But he was nice when he came round.’ Her husband was in hospital by 5.15 but they didn’t get him a bed till 8.30 that evening. Was he visited by a physiotherapist? Perhaps, but he certainly didn’t have any. The speech- therapist came and assessed him, but they never saw him again. He was in hospital – the Charing X at the bottom of the road, - from April to September, since when he’s been at home, in a wheel-chair. Now he’s back in hospital, partly because she needs a break, she’s obviously exhausted, in a nightmare. In between, the only comfort has been from the voluntary associations, The Stroke Assoc. and the carers. The S.A. sent a speech therapist who herself had lost her speech after a stroke and she has come for an hour a week, all through, and sometimes visits him as a friend. There are a few surrounding ironies. She left her job at the newsagents a fortnight before, and he said we’ll be free to… Her two brothers moved to the South Coast a month before, so they’re not there to support her directly. She has two sons, which I remembered in the nick of time, and ‘The younger has been a brick.’ And the elder, I thought, and the daughters-in-law? He has no family, they have told her some improvement is possible up to eighteen months. I encouraged her as much as possible in this belief, and kept telling her how brave she was being. She had just came from Charing X where he is at the moment where he’s being treated for depression. She realised he was uncomfortable for some reason, and needed another pillow. She asked the nurse, who went away and came back and said, ‘I’m afraid we haven’t got a spare pillow.’ ‘So I took along one of my own.’

We stood in the main hall, with me holding her hand all the time and her shoulder some of the time. When I left her, after two or three little weeps, I kissed her and hoped it helped.

Suddenly a programme about the theatre this year and its future, was substituted for a film. A sort of sub-South-bank Show, ‘presented’ by Melvyn Bragg and ‘Hosted’ by Sheridan Morley. I was shocked that Janet Suzman and Thelma Holt agreed to appear with Bill Kenwright. Philip Hedley seemed a bit of a smoothie. A melancholy occasion. I only lasted thro’ the first three dishonest time-servings.

Saturday December 31 1994

R. rang. There are further rather fascinating developments in his burglary. The CID have now been round two or three times. One of the times was because R. had seen, in the long garden backing on to his long garden, - the garden of a house apparently boarded up, though on closer inspection, R. realised it was the shutters that were up, - a fortyish man walking about in a dressing gown. He called the police who were round in four minutes, entering the house opposite by every possible entrance. They confronted the dressing-gowned man, who remained completely unmoved when R’s computer was then seen in the garden. The house was ‘beautiful’ inside, big, with a recording studio in the process of being re-done as a photography studio. This, it seems, accounts for the shutters being up. The police have not brought up any charges, though his calm is suspicious to me. He may technically disclaim all knowledge of the computer, but I bet he has an idea of who put it there. My guess is one of the bits of rough that have been in and out and seen the possibilities.

A computer person said to R. Let the computer sit there and dry out by itself for a fortnight and perhaps try it. Perhaps the disk itself will be all right at least. R. has a stinking cold. No call from K.

Sunday January 1 1995

Put a new lead in D’s silver pencil. It was the last of the leads that were in the pencil when I gave it to her in 1957 or something. Well, might it be called Yard O’Led.

Rang a few people, thinking all the time of K’s plane crashing, or that perhaps in his rush, he postponed a day etc etc. I try to conceal this Mummy like side from him. Sharron rang and we had a good chat, she and the other three girls had a party for seven people which went on till quarter to six this morning. I think she’s going to be all right!

Left a message on S’s machine. About three-quarters of an hour later, Chris W. rang. S. was literally going out the house to Heathrow when he played my message, and asked Chris to call me. He is, it seems, on his way to Tokyo to put Carman Jones on.

He has most of the touring cast, all the principals, I think, but has some newcomers to slot in, the touring-set to adapt perhaps to a strange stage, the whole, done through interpreters, to open in five days. Someone’s mad, to the edge of unprofessional, by my standards.

Then – there is always a ‘then’ with S. – he flies to Tahiti for a month’s filming.

Finally K rang. I never get used to modern ‘phones – he sounded as if he was at Elfort Rd exactly – happily Sharron had reminded me Stan was staying there for most of the week and feeding the cat. – he was ringing to say HNY and would I say it to his parents. He’d rung and they were engaged. There is no ‘phone in the villa they’re staying at, he was in the town ‘In an office.’ I said ‘Now be careful – you know what I mean.’ He said firmly, ‘Much love.’

Monday January 2 1995

Well, I rang the Malpasses every half-hour or so from 6.30 to 11.15, with no answer. I didn’t like to go on any later. This morning, I’ve tried since eleven, again no answer. Now of course it’s party time and they have a lot of friends and relations. But isn’t it unlikely that Marjorie would be out till 11.15 at night and out again by 11.0 the next day? Such a frail invalid. The first time I tried, I got the wrong number three times running. 5702 instead of 8. I think the people, very Liverpool, had hangovers and were not pleased. I got the operator who said I wouldn’t be charged for the calls, - how did she know I hadn’t misdialed? – and she said the engineer would test the Malpasses no. I am still ringing at 4.30, with no answer and am just beginning to be worried.

Especially as Mary L. rang up to say she had pneumonia and was going into Central Middlesex Hospital, geriatric ward! Well, I’m relieved really. She was going on the other day about not getting the strong enough antibiotics because they’re too expensive under the NHS. So in hospital, with pneumonia, presumably she will, tho’ nothing seems certain in that department now. What I don’t understand is that there seems no mention of her BUPA. I would have thought she was much more ill than when she used it before.

I eventually got Ernie at 6.30ish. They’d been down to stay with Phil, and had just motored back. I’ll kill K when I see him for not telling me.

Rang Mary’s hospital at quarter to ten, ‘She fine.’ Oh that word. ‘The doctor’s with her,’ – as late as this? Oh, the horror, poor Mary.

Tuesday January 3 1994

Had a bad night, and went back to sleep at 6.30ish and woke at ten past twelve, with Sharron coming to dinner. Decided to skip lunch, and go straight to Soho to get a guinea-fowl. Oddly none of the butchers in Soho had one, so got a pheasant instead. The boucherie in Brewer St. I see has bread of various - no doubt delicious kinds, at £1.70 a loaf. The pheasant was £3.50. Back here, I struggled through some sketchy bits of house work, of the kind where you leave the dustpan and brush by the unswept carpet as if you’re just going to do it…. I kept wishing she wasn’t coming, but I delighted in every minute, not the less because she brought me a mound of presents, there they were round my chair, all separately carefully wrapped, in her busy life! There was a heavy glass with a citronella candle in it, for meals in the garden, a really heavy base, because the flame burns quite high, and needs ballest. A three or four inch candle and a good firm iron candle-holder for it and the other candles she gave me the other year, two smaller candles of very good quality, two tea-towels, one with a charming sun-face motif, and best of all a starfish, petrified in some way, so that its top and underside are equally preserved, - but it must be delicately brittle – but the top is almost my favorite colour, a very delicate smoky blue, the blue of rosemary flowers.

I got her to give me a closer description of her three flatmates, all girls. George. 27. Graphic designer, just left a quite well-know restaurant designer, her ‘partner’ for a time. He was a violent environmentalist and wore cycling shorts most of the time. She wants to leave the flat and share with Sharron, who naturally doesn’t want to move again for a while. It came up, because Chris, 24, is leaving, journalist in money-marketing magazine. A career woman, 5’9’’. Sh. delivered a series of pile-driving blows – ‘Acne’, ‘pear-shaped’, ‘a gossip’, ‘like a man in drag’. This all came out slowly and thoughtfully. More pulverizing as a result. Sharron also feels that, if she and George share, that leaves the original tenant of the flat, Jo, 25, with three new tenants to find. Works with her brother in his graphic design co. She says he ‘Has major international clients.’ Very boyish-looking. Might be into a drag or two. Came into sitting room having drunk a half-bottle of extra-strong vodka and put Cindy Crawford exercise video on, and encouraged others to join in.

Only tiny shadow is that she has fallen into that talking-down of K. of which Roy is also guilty. Slight but unmistakable.

Wednesday January 4 1995

I forgot to say that Mary L, has transferred to a private hospital, the Clementine Churchill. She seemed all right, was wired up for her heart, and of course the doctor was giving her the wrong medicine, etc etc.

Roly Davis, Karin Mc C’s husband, on the board of various theatrical charities, rang up to have a nice little busybody about Mary. ‘She’s in that flat with water running down the walls, and now she’s got pneumonia.’ He had a lovely busybody about her going into Denville now…. etc etc.. She’s only 73, and has been perfectly in command of her life, and will be again.

Andrew J. rang back, he’s going to AA. Well. When he first came here, he had been ‘on the wagon’ for three years, then a year or two later, he started on the wine and then the gin, until lately he has been drinking as usual. However, he has described some little debacles which, I suppose, are true. A pity if he goes to these extremes.

In the p.m. to Three Colours Red. Hm. The girl and Jean Louis Trintingnant were good but the self-conscious obliquity was rather trying. My attention kept wondering, and perhaps my full understanding of the obliquities was impaired by dropping off three or four times.

Thursday January 5 1995

Rang Mary L. at the Clementine Churchill. I know she’s genuinely ill, but I am always put off anything approaching a picturesquely frail tone. Like Daddy, she makes no attempt to make the best of it and let you off. She obviously loves ‘wrong-footing.’

After lunch went straight to Elfort Rd. to feed Boo. Stan had left everything in fair order, though the electric fire wasn’t on. Perhaps as well, after all cats go out at night and don’t catch cold. Went on to Fulham to see ‘Junior.’ Quiet awful, but wanted to see Emma Thompson not in a major role. She was pretty awful, too, pushing into tricky fussy caricature most of the time, not able to leave well alone. But at least her faults are positive. You would have only to say ‘No, don’t do that.’ ‘No, only one take.’ ‘No, don’t move, just look.’

Friday January 6 1995

Just as I was going out to feed the cat, Hazel rang again to say how thrilled Tom H. was with S’s tapes of his books. Good. How easy an agent’s job is in its artistic aspects. Was shocked that I’d left the electric fire on, ‘burnt tails.’ Well, on my way back, went to the Gate to see the new film Shallow Grave. All very clever, but with silly commonsensical flaws as so often now, especially the end. I don’t think it’s at all interesting to wonder whether the last surviving main character is dead or not. After all, one does know when someone is dead or not. Quite interesting, that at one point, the main boy, watching a home video with the main girl, was dressed in a sequined sheath, make-up and earrings and no one mentioned it even by default. A bit boring, too much music, but I did last to the end.

Saturday January 7 1995

11.15. K. has just rung. He’s back and he’s safe. ‘I thought you loved me and there aren’t any potatoes.’ ‘Do you get much work done?’ ‘No.’ ‘I’m pissed.’ ‘So am I.’ ‘See you Monday?’ Oh so good.

Sunday January 8 1995

Colder. Leg getting better, but still needs rest.

Monday January 9 1995 Tuesday January 10 1995

I am beginning to think that my diary will begin to be empty about K. as it was so often about D. Perfectly happiness is difficult to describe, and when I go round for dinner, there is such rest and quiet pleasure, I have no need to ‘perform’ and ‘keep everything going.’ – he never feeds on me. He remembered that it was D’s b’day soon – I couldn’t believe it.

We went over Christmas lightly. All was fairly well, except, at the last minute, he and Ernie had a little would-be tiff about Jack Nicholson’s so called ‘talents’ (I was specially amused because you could make out a case for Jack Nicholson not being talented, not that Ernie could follow that either.)

He told me about his cousins Janet and Linda. Janet has a wonderful house, money etc. etc. and Linda is a real person, who has had a hard life, and made a great success of her life. Phil’s new house is converted barn with double-glazing windows and a swimming pool, all quite obviously quite Essexised and spoilt. Yes, I’ve helped him to see, but it was in him already, which is why we’re where we are.

Later we talked about Claire M. I find out more about the old days now. I thought he’d had a affair with Claire in the middle of her real affair with Roy. It seemed that he and C. had one fuck on the bonnet of Trevor. I have always thought Claire was a rather inadequate human being ever since K. told me, years ago, that she often had a boyfriend and a lover. The latter she would introduce as ‘my fucking-pole.’ Apparently each was known to the other. He repeated it again. I wonder where Claire is now? Certainly not in the position her gifts entitled her to. K. doesn’t seem to see the melancholy of a girl talking like that. Dear dearest one.

Tim comes to dinner tonight. Now I shall have to put off another day. Tim at last.

Wednesday January 11 1995

Dear Tim, He’s doing a short James Saunders play at lunch-time, at the Orange Tree. He’s slightly less depressed about his career as a result. He was very sane about Mairead. I told him about my chat with his father, and him saying he didn’t think Tim would ever get over her. It seems he had a love who left him, too. T’s ma feels guilt that she hasn’t came up to that early love. ‘Guilt’ he said wryly. He was funny about John Major’s girl in the bathroom when he left. Said he must do the broken pipe, with his brother. Oh yes, if he could and take the strain off K.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 131

January 11 1995 - March 1 1995

Wednesday January 11 1995 (cont.)

Otherwise a fruitless day. Meant to pay my Alliance payment, which has gone up to £25, and limped up and down Holborn looking for the branch. I’d meant to go to the Renoir, but had to go back to Selfridge and do the payment there. Leg hurt, tho’ it was all right at first.

Rang Tim, who’d said he wanted to do some directing. I left a message on the machine about Strindberg. At first I got a long pause, a voice said. ‘Reed and Mackay, Travel Agents.’ I wonder what the odds are against that. The only greater would be if the voice had said Watson and Mackay…

Thursday January 12 1995

This afternoon I did get to Amateur and wished I hadn’t. A would-be oblique ‘French’ thriller made by Hal Hartley, an American. I was so bored that I started to count the pauses. In such a film (or play) nobody answers anyone at once. They have to think, you see. Sometimes they think in the middle of their own lines as well. The pause before they reply seems to settle down at about seventeen beats. An internal pause averages fourteen. There you see, they’ve got acting down to a fine art. Or possibly these days, an applied science.

On the way back a rather large chubby young man, Japanese or possibly Chinese, had his features crowed together in the middle of his face. I don’t mean he was deformed at all, - it was just the extreme of a certain sort of oriental face, if he were European, he would be a boy that had a very difficult birth.

R. rang at last, at 10.30, still quiet and subdued, but better. ‘When can I see you?’ but even putting it off for a week. He’s seeing K. Tues or Thurs. ‘About Cambridge?’ ‘No’, he said slightly touchily, ‘just social’.

Oh, darling Sharon sent me a pretty p.c. of E.H.Shephard’s sketch for the last illustration of Now We Are Six. She copied a job application they’d had at the shop, which is called Falconer’s. It was from Ashley N.8. ‘I have worked for 18 months as a manager of an art shop. Also I have had experience dealing with the public in a variety of different positions.’

Friday January 13 1995

I must record that John M. has not only used up three-quarters of the litre of my shampoo and the cotton-buds I bought for K. years ago, from a full box to the last three, - both from the bathroom- cupboard, where he has no call or indeed right, to go, but has opened and used to two or three strings two new packets of spaghetti in that tall glass column K. gave me. He never asked and has never referred to it. I wouldn’t mind a bit, but this has an unpleasant feeling of someone going behind my back to get whatever he can get away with. Ugh!

No sign of the rent by tonight, it is trying as it means I must go to the Halifax in the morning.

Bad night. I’m still awake at 6.30. I’ll try and start early and collapse early. I am in danger of getting up too often too late.

Saturday January 14 1995

Well, I got the rent, that’s something. But the spaghetti I bought remains in my bedroom, and I had to go to the Halifax, because he didn’t give it me until this evening.

Watched bits of King Kong. I had forgotten how hilariously ceaseless Fay Wray’s screams were. Despite, or perhaps because, of my bad night, I was out to shop at eleven. How quite mad it is that New Zealand lamb is £2 cheaper than English lamb!

Mild suddenly. Turned the electric radiator in the drawing-room off.

Sunday January 15 1995

Hazel left a message on the machine of thanks again for S’s doing the books. When I rang back, she gave me a real comic treat, letter of Dirk Bogarde’s appended to Kathleen Tynan’s obituary. I have always despised D.B. off and on. I am delighted to have a piece of evidence to prove it. The letter is grossly sentimental and infelicitous – as Arthur Marshall said of Godfrey Winn – ‘Does his ear tell him nothing?’, not to mention intensely self-regarding. That isn’t unexpected from someone who’s autobiography devoted 298 pages of 300 to his childhood, and it finishes ‘Ciao, darling.’

Watched The 39 Steps for the first time for – oh, forty years or so since I saw it with D., she having last seen it when it was new. How good it still is, and how dazzling it must have been then. Hitchcock had a very low boredom threshold and how grateful one is, the hour and a half went in a flash, and we were at the denouement after what seemed to me about three quarters of an hour. And there was Peggy A. in the year of the famous Romeo and Juliet. I noticed for the first time. Odd to think that she might have gone from that film set to the New, perhaps one of the nights when D. was there – she went four or five times, I think.

A progamme about a vicar with AIDS. Oh, dear, saints – so often that’s all they’re fit for. His parish is a Yorkshire pit-that-was town of 10,000 people. Even so, it has an Edwardian Theatre, 1910, in a brick flourish. All we saw of it besides that, was a ghastly amateur rehearsal, no interior. Amazing that it’s survived and I’ve never heard of its name before.

Monday January 16 1995

To Selfridge to pay my account to buy a corkscrew and some Mansion House polish. I did the first two, but Mansion House, which I had when I was a child – the only thing I’ve stuck to from my childhood – seems to have gone. The corkscrew, the wooden double kind I like, because it’s easiest, had a price-tag that had become illegible. The charming young shop-girl blushed and dimpled her helplessness but found a supervisor eventually. Her name-tag revealed a certain liability. Victoria Paramour. I sympathised with her, I hope tactfully. It’s a beautiful name, but literally and unfortunately remarkable.

To Shepard’s B. to pay the video. So good to do this and then to the p.o. to get my pension, and all this without my leg hurting much.

Frightful earthquake in Japan. I thought they knew what to do, but it all looked just as much a mess as California, motorway raised road collapsing, unchecked fires and so on. Nature is still in charge. It seems there was an earthquake in Colchester before the war which was baddish by our standards, and one in St. Andrews in 1912, which killed two people.

Tuesday January 17 1995

Woke at eightish, and a bit of toast and a cold sausage. Read the papers, dozed off and woke at 12.30. I hate that, as it makes no day and I might stay up tonight to be sure to sleep through and break the cycle.

Hazel sent me Flying Dutch for S, to film? TV? And the Dirk Bogarde letter. Oh, it’s perfect, in its awfulness.

Rang B’mouth tax-office to spike any tiresomeness of Lalla, who was 89 three days ago. I asked him what to do if she became forgetful – he said I’d have to ask her for permission to… ‘Well, what if she became too forgetful to give that permission?’ ‘Well, a power of attorney.’ It’s all so trying. It’s terrible to long for someone to die, and I push away the feeling whenever it comes round.

Messages for John M. from a girl, Andrea Harriet and his brother. They made me a bit suspicious, I spoke to the girl the second time, and said ‘He’s at work.’ She did a kind of change of gear, which suggested to me that she was concealing from me that he couldn’t be at work. Harriet said she had a message from John Makepeace, whoever he may be, and his brother rang, who’s supposed to be the chef where he works. John himself out since this a.m. came suddenly in at 7.30. Now he’s never done that – his work is always, at shortest 4-12. I think he’s had the sack. Bother.

Really, if it wasn’t for my debts, I’d never get out of the house.

Wednesday January 18 1995

Bad night again. Had a boiled egg at 1.30, and a welsh rarebit at half-past four. Dozed off at about six, woke at ten, read the papers, and woke at ten to two. Still made myself write to B’mouth tax, and got to the launderette for the first time since my leg, and did so without pain tho’ the two bags were heavier than usual.

Rang K. to find out how R. was. K. with a cold, but repressive as usual on the ‘phone. I must write about that – not that it worries me anymore. Brought a guinea fowl after Launderette.

Thinking of D. Bogarde’s ghastly letter, I thought how all my life, I’ve hoped I could shunt off the sentimental horrors together. Why can’t Dirk B. deal with Lalla? Or vice-versa, if it comes to that, or leave Ju with Lalla, even better. They deserve each other, but I haven’t managed it yet.

Thursday January 19 1995

A card from K. from Ibiza. Postmark four days after he left. Told him briefly. R rang to confirm Saturday. There have been quite violent protests against animal transporting – calves, sheep, going to the continent, in unlikely places like Shoreham and Brightlingsea. The police have been a bit rough, a great mistake. I wish there were protests for more serious reasons. I don’t want people to be cruel to animals, but really there is a fitness in things.

The Prince of Wales’ valet has sold photographs of his private rooms to the papers, including a photograph of the photographs on his beside-table. There is no excuse for this on any grounds whatever.

Friday January 20 1995

‘Interview With a Vampire’ reviewed, more or less to my liking. Except that four young people, on a TV programme called Moviewatch, while sounding to me quite sound on the three other films they were judging, went overboard for it. Of course, three or four of their idols were in it, and it was the talking-point of the season, so I can suppose they can’t tell that it’s rather boring. I was more interested in the idiot presenter interviewing Brad Pitt. I hadn’t seen him as himself before, and he’s funny and intelligent and quick, thank goodness. There is a sweet old-world happening at the Royal Court Theatre upstairs. People have been walking out of a play called Blasted, a tempting title in itself, and critics have crammed their headlines with ‘Filthy’, ‘Disgusting’ and so on. A middle-aged journalist rapes and torments a mentally retarded girl, a young soldier breaks in and rapes him – I didn’t know why, I don’t think he knew the girl, - bites out his eyes and eats them. Later the blind journalist eats the girl’s? baby, and at some point, there is ‘An act of defecation.’ The ridiculous simulation of rape is a depressing and useless cliché, and I daresay the act of d. is as ridiculous a pretence. But if it weren’t, oh, the tension on matinée days!

I wonder what will happen when ‘shock value’ loses its charm even for blunt brains. There really is hardly anyone left to shock. Except by trying a bit of honesty, good writing and presuming the truth. Bad night again.

Saturday January 21 1995

Dear R. came round to dinner at last. Told me a bit about dinner with K. on Tuesday, ‘Purely social.’ I daresay poor K. has given up pushing, still, it does seem that Cambridge will make a decision about the money in March. If the decision if favorable, this will still mean that production can’t possibly be before Sept. 1996. Oh, God, the prudence of it all nowadays. To my surprise, R. said it was the first time he’d had dinner at K’s for a year! We had celery soup, beef casserole, broccoli and parsnips, apple pie. The casser. might have been a touch more meltingly done, - I am not quite used to this oven for simmering yet. It’ll probably be right tomorrow.

Talking about John M., R. read his letter and said ‘Be careful. Perhaps when Kevin and I come round, we’d better meet him’ and give him a jump, I suppose he meant. I was struck that K said that they must come to dinner together ‘á trois’ ‘When we laugh.’ I suppose they know it’s me, and that I have evenings of helpless laughter without them, sometimes without anyone! And it doesn’t seem to happen to R. any other time, and K. doesn’t tell him that it happens to K and I without him.

Not a word about Zoë, and little about the house or the burglary. I was tired after my bad night, and was glad to play a Les Dawson and a Peter Cook tape. Dear R.

Sunday January 22 1995

No rent yet, Hm. I think I was right.

Rain, rain, rain, will it never stop. I went to bed at one-thirty to be sure of being tired, and woke at five-thirty. Watched the TV news, and read a bit, dozed off about seven, and woke at eleven thirty. Read the Sundays, - oh, there was an extract from A. Powell’s diaries, ’82-’86. Quite corrosively witty. I can’t wait for the book. He describes two dinner parties at which all the men, including him, thought that Mrs. Thatcher was very attractive. Now, of course, it can’t be ‘physically’ – positively repellent – but it does show that men, as well as women, find power sexually attractive. That was thought a specifically feminine reaction – big bus. film moguls, etc. showing markedly repulsive men attracting ambitious bimbos. Well, of course there haven’t been all that many really powerful women. In England, surely the last one was Elisabeth the First. She certainly had many men, ‘In love’ with her, and tho’ possibly attractive in youth… He is wonderfully dismissive of Salman Rushdie. I look forward to further satisfying confirmations of my own opinions – J.B. priestley, ‘A mind of stupefying banality.’

Monday January 23 1995

Cold. Woke at about six, watched the TV news, went back to bed about seven-thirty, read the papers till quarter to nine, dozed off and woke at three. I had meant to go to pictures and so on. Went and got my pension and sent Neil’s letter off, and brought an extra US stamp, 41p. How stark that looks. And came back to start the evening yet again. Still no rent. I went into the room to see if there was anything untoward – a full rubbish stack on the Georgian table. Floor more or less covered with rubbish, including three or four beer cans, - how people can drink from the small holes in these cans, with pleasure, especially when someone else would be washing the glasses – but what really struck me, was that none of the cans was finished. In my generation, impossible. And what about the rent? No, he must, one way and another, go.

The man who called was ‘revving’ up his son’s motor-cycle for some time. The son came home while it was going on, and seemed to have a quite strong argument with TMWPC. Once more, as so often, the front door of the house was open, fully open, for a couple of hours at least. What a charmless life such families live. Whatever the pictures are in their hall, they have been out of the perpendicular for years. Janet rang. Sweet.

Tuesday January 24 1995

Rang Janet back and had a good chat. Asked her to mention me casually to Andrew J. who never rang back. When Janet left a message on my machine, she said I haven’t talked to my friend for days. Not true but sweet.

So today I did get to the Renoir, and saw Eat Drink Man Woman. A sweet film, - I use the word exactly, like a sweet nutty apple, as John G. said Newton was a sweet actor. I was held throughout. It’s the same director as Wedding Banquet, and made in the same place, Taiwan. I am ashamed to say that I have no idea where that exactly is. But I find it difficult to believe it’s in Communist China, for deeper reasons than the clothes and the cars. How ignorant I am.

When I got back here, there was no rent. Later there was a phone call for him – he was out last night, and didn’t come in – so I called down, and he answered, took the call, and I was just moving myself to speak to him, when I realised he’d left again. Painful and Squalid.

Rang Janet, which cheered me up. Asked me to record a prog. about Richard Leakey. I watched it with great interest. Pictures of the young R.L., especially poignant not only for the loss of looks, and slimness, but legs.

Woke at 3.30, bacon sandwich.

Wednesday January 25 1995

I must remember how wonderful it is to walk normally and without pain, every now and again.

K. rang at lunchtime, ‘Now I don’t really love you. I’m not going to chat, I want you to test my ‘phone.’ Did so, and he rang off…

Long letter from S. crossing with mine of course, from Park Hotel, Moorea. He spent Christmas day with Kathleen Tynan, at her request, together with Chris, Carl Reiner, the half of the Watergate exposure, her two children, Max and Roxana, and Shirley MaClaine. K.T. was a ravaged skeleton, the cancer being in her head, so that she couldn’t see and her eyes were out of control. She lay on the chaise-longue, urging them to eat more caviar, - ‘It’s all got to go today’ – and they read cracker fortunes she would not live to see, and presents she would never wear etc etc. Still being the supreme hostess…

I could not tell from his letters exactly how grotesque he thought the whole thing. It would not convince me that her judgment as a hostess was good. After all, anyone who can repeat a partie carrè of herself, S, Princess Margeret and Dick Bogarde. I can’t recall what S. thought of D.B. before I started in on him, but at least now he was scathing about his Telegraph letter about K.T. How odd and poignant to think of those two grown-up children, perhaps wondering how they will pay for the caviar after she’s gone – because I can’t believe there’s much money. Life being what it is, I bet Roxane looks like Ken and Matt looks like pretty Kathleen. But I just leap into Ken’s life and the moment our paths crossed, and he had that first wild carelessness of youth to an exceptional degree, and here are two grown-up children by a subsequent wife to the one he quarreled with so violently when I stayed in Upper Berk St.

S. is suffering badly from the humidity in Tahiti – 100 % - still hasn’t said what the film is, but the director and crew are not too comprehensible, and his chest is being troublesome. He’s seeing doctors often, ‘I who never take an aspirin’ – I supposed he really believes that – but it’s a very funny letter, finishing with him saying he’s doing the last J. Osborne thing, ‘a Purcell biog. with me as Charles II.’A play? A TV? A Film? Anyway, he’s coming back for a week before going to finish the film, with Catalonian crew, in Barcelona. I was quite interested that he at last confessed that he was an entirely metropolitan creature.

Rang to tell bits to Hazel, Roy and R.

Am watching D. Attenborough’s Plants programme with terrific enjoyment. Religious.

There’s been a fuss about a black musical, equity protesting about not employing black English actors. I don’t know the right and wrong of this particular case. I must just record that I find all these displays, of black ‘vitality’, ceaseless movement, gospel choirs, ugh. Any kind of ‘hypnotic’ beat, be it from a hot-gospeller or musician, is repellent.

Thursday January 26 1995

D’s b’day, 82. I don’t feel sad any more, - I find a few happy or funny memories sliding past.

Again dozed off over papers, and slept till 1.30. Nevertheless got up and went to Metro, to see Gus Van Sant film. Though announced in The Standard, it was off. That has happened before, and have never found out whose fault it is. So turned tail and bought dinner and went home. The rent was on the table. The temperature dropped nearly twenty degrees during today and tonight.

Plaice for dinner – I didn’t know why it’s not valued – it has to me a most distinctive and delicious taste.

Friday January 27 1995

The fiftieth anniversary of the entry into Auschwitz. I watched none of it, I need no reminders. Nothing could be more vivid than first hearing of it at 19.

Rang Tim to talk of a possible job. He auditioned for a three-in-hand thriller to be sent on tour by Bill Kenwright, and possibly coming in. I didn’t ask him about it on Sat. so as not to tempt fate. Not that I wanted him to do it, as although the money might be goodish – only three in it – it’s sure to be ‘tacky’ in some way, and selfish. He’d offered to do the drain-pipe! Well, he didn’t get it but he’s been to be interviewed for Roy’s series! Tho’ it’s not till April. Also long talk to Justin, who hasn’t dropped me as I rather hoped. Still, it was a jolly chat about films mainly, and I expect I cheered him not asking him whether he’d got a job. The family gave him a television set for Christmas, more inducement to do nothing. He’s found a boy-friend, whom he met in Finsbury Park. His name is David, he’s Scots from Oban, he’s a music teacher. Perhaps a few home truths may emerge.

This p.m. to new film ‘Only You.’ Rather lame, and old fashioned romantic comedy, perhaps lacking because the director is rather old. Romance fades. But it was saved for me, just, by acting of the leads, Marisa Tomei and R. Downey Jnr., good enough to bring a tear to my eye, at the happy ending. Typical exchange. Heroine, shutting herself in lift: Why are you doing this?’ ‘Because I’m in love with you.’ ‘What sort of excuse is that?’ exit lift. Even a bad example can work with me for an afternoon. My first visit to completely refurnished and decorated cinema at Hammersmith, previously a fleapit, to which I never went, even to test the fleas. Now got up regardless, by MGM, new everything, loos, carpets, - even the ice-cream is Haagen-Dazs, v. expensive. All hideous alas, like The Trocadero. The seats would be comfortable, but are too narrow for me. Happily a strange survival, or rather revival, in Cinema 4, perhaps in all five, tho’ not at the Trocadero, double seats. As they’re in the back row, obviously, they suit me, as I get a crick in my neck very easily if I am not near the back. I don’t understand why the others don’t.

Yes, it is so good to go up and down stairs again, carelessly, and not feel ‘furious that I’ve forgotten something.

Rain, rain, rain.

Saturday January 28 1995

Still rain.

No sign of the rent again. I have removed all the spaghetti and rice and macaroni from the jar in the kitchen so that J.M. can’t pinch anymore. Oh dear, I’ll have to deal with it soon. I have the gas bill to pay.

Brought A. Powell’s journals and reading them with terrific pleasure and amusement. Every now and again, a perfectly chosen word at once convulses me, and pierces with pleasure. About L.P. Hartley’s biography ‘…David Cecil was against a biography for twenty years, which I could have well believed, as revelations likely to be, to say the least, picturesque.’ Hazel, who now knows them, says she thinks Violet has a pretty difficult time, and that he has a temper. Well, he’s wracked with arthritis and go in December so I suppose it’s not surprising.

Sunday January 29 1995

Anthony Powell mentioned a recipe of Annabelle Boxer’s for braised lamb. I went to look it up, in case it should be in First Slice Your Cookbook. It was, but I had completely forgotten the provenance of the book. On the flyleaf was To Dorothy.

More recipes to contemplate during solemn moments of the play. With love from Alan. Forty Years On. Sep. 68-August 69.

It was a leaving present two interesting aspects. First, that cooking had registered so strongly as an interest. Certainly D and I were at the height of our entertaining then, and she did look for new recipes. Second, that he wouldn’t have written that inscription except to someone whose concentration was complete.

In the p.m. watched some of the ‘Robin Hood’ film. I hadn’t seen it since its first showing, when I was twelve. I think mine is the first generation to be able to see our childhood in absolute naturalism, colour and sound and all. I thought it wonderful at the time and I thought it still excellent of its kind. Quick, and with little or no absurdities, or American accents for that matter, always the crowning absurdity. I see it was given the maximum number of stars in the film-list so, my twelve year-old judgment seems to have been good. Not that I could watch it all through now. How perfect Basil Rathbone’s villain is in looks, physique, swordsmanship, and especially voice, sneering away through that long nose. It might have been invented to look down.

Later a programme about Coco Channel. Almost unbelievable to discover that she was abandoned in a convent by her father when she was 12. She wore one uniform while the girls who paid wore another superior one.

Monday January 30 1995

There was a para. in The Spectator about the wonder of success at public-school. I was irrestibily reminded of the song I had in Julian’s first musical at Cambridge, ‘Bang Goes The Meringue’. I tremble to think how awful I was, but that’s not the point. I had a song which roused the critics of the piece – and they were many – to transports of irritation. I didn’t see why then, - it was so successful. But I do now. It was titled I Shall Never be so Successful Again as I Was When I Was At School. During the week or fortnight’s run, Gilbert Harding, then a very famous radio, perhaps TV even by then, ‘personality’ came to see it, and to a party in the rooms of the Trinity chaplain, Geoffrey Beaumont. I sang the song, and the tears dripped off Gilbert H’s heavy jowls in floods. I was rather gratified then. I crawl now.

To Hazel’s club, and to the Italian place at last for dinner. Before there has been literally nobody dining, which is uncomfortable. This time, ideal, three tables full, just enough for comfort and not too many for our poor deaf ears. We had our usual delightful to and fro talk, and over coffee, I showed her a couple of Lalla’s ghastly letters, one of which I hadn’t even been able to look at except sideways! It was partly to corroborate anything I’ve said about L. for the character in her latest ‘tea’ story. But it was quite purging to hear her crisis of horror and I feel that she sympathised with my irritation over the lingering mess of my family from beyond the grave!

A message from R. saying ‘Where are you? Ring.’ He’d been to dins with K. and they’d decided they’d come to dinner on Wed week for a really good laugh.’ Or laff as K. would say. To my amazement, R. said it was a year since he’d been to dins with K.

Tuesday January 31 1995

A rather pointless sort of day. The rent has still not appeared. Woke at six, dozed off after the papers and woke at eleven-thirty. Read – I have started on a re-read of A. Powell’s autobiog, after his journals, the third time, I think – and woke at one-fifty. Had no lunch.

John M’s friend, Harriet, rang. He was out. She confirmed that he had lost his job, but says he’s got one today. Hm.

Again didn’t shave. Dressed after my bath.

Was reminded of Alan Pryce-Jones by P’s biog. I did a radio criticism of the film R III, which he was intolerably and undeservedly sniffy about it. Why did I do it? Have no idea now of circumstances.

Wednesday February 1 1995

A very similar story. Can’t spell today.

Thursday February 2 1995

Met Sharron at the pub at the end of the road. It too is on the grand union canal. It is pleasant enough, except for the now almost universal piped music. Still, it was nice and empty, more or less a necessity for me, for every reason.

Sh. was looking a bit battered, even that wonderful white skin not so wonderfully matt. She said she was all right on the surface but feels pretty raw inside. Another telltale sign was her saying two or three quiet separate times, that someone had fancied her. One of the girls from the studio went past the window and waved. ‘She really fancied Robin when he was working at the studio.’ ‘What’s her name?’ ‘Zoe’.

She told me that girl has moved out of the flat. They advertised for a fourth, and didn’t get all that many answers. They’ve settled for a boy of 24. ‘What does he do?’ ‘He’s a semi- professional footballer!’

We talked of K. of course and she said she still loved him, but ‘I think he’s changed for the worse lately, - I think he’s lost his vision of his work, and is thinking too commercially etc etc.’

Her natural resentment combines with her timidity to comfort herself with talking K down a bit. She actually said that she didn’t think he was as busy as all that. ‘Of course, he works all the time, anyway, just for himself’. She said ‘I’m seeing him tonight, we talk, he said he might have to cancel, but I’ve arranged an alternative anyway.’ She is a dear girl, and I hope she eventually recovers and gets things straight.

Went to Sainsbury on way back, as I seldom get a chance to. Brought half a duck for £2.69. found a message on machine from K ‘Ring me.’ Did so, ‘How was Sharron?’ I told him, stopping to clear my throat. ‘You sound hesitant, is she all right? I’m going to have to cancel.’ I said, ‘She seemed to think you weren’t all that busy, and she’d arranged an alternative anyway.’ ‘Not very busy?’ He then reeled off at least five quite separate jobs, each occupying at least half a day, redoing a half-hour prog.here, re-recording ‘the Granada thing’. incl. a meeting at Granda tonight. ‘Didn’t you tell her that I haven’t even seen you for the three weeks?’ ‘No.’

I see they’ve made a film about Beethoven, with Gary Oldman as Beethoven, who is, from head to toe, almost supernaturally unlike anything ever heard about B. It seems Countess something- Italian was ‘The best solace he ever had.’ Never heard it called that before.

Friday February 3 1995

Very mild, and still fine. John M. fresh from paying the rent nearly a week late, came up to say he was having three people to lunch, should he do the washing up, and where was the hoover? I was charmingly responsive. Told him about the leaf in his table, after sharply confirming that he was having it in his room. He’d cleared up completely, and not before time. It was very little trouble except for a lump of washing-up. Nobody under forty polishes glasses any more. While I was getting the rice-dish going with the end of the duck, my hands covered in fat, and cutting up an onion, a voice said ‘Hullo, hullo.’ A rather plump, incontinent looking girl, with that look of rather silly imbalance, said ‘Oh Mr. Angus, I had to meet you. I’m Andrea.’ It seems I’m famous because I was in Dr. Who. How does she know that? She told me she was Andrea a couple of times more, ‘Now you know who I am.’ I couldn’t shake hands, or stop cooking - why didn’t the silly bitch say, ‘Oh you’re cooking, I mustn’t interrupt you’ or, at least, ‘I hate being watched when I’m cooking, too,’ – but no. I got rid of her, poor thing. She said her name was Mackenzie. She sounded slightly middle European. ‘You’re the famous Angus.’ indeed.

In the p.m. to the shops, at last to get shoes repaired. Even in the cheap shop, soling and heeling cost £23.

Rang Mary. She’s feeling v. tired, ‘Making a cup of tea is like getting a four course meal.’ Put the rice, spaghetti, etc. back in the canisters, and will leave him an unequivocal note. Rang Roy to tell him how good his pilot for the Thief Takers series was. Some good notes. Told him about the wonderfully ridiculous series. Revelations of course, they’re already watching it. Oh, and the Time and Place was interrupted by two black activists getting up and addressing the audience quiet violently on racism. Of course, the programme was abandoned as nobody could shut them up, and you never know about bombs, let alone knives. Nobody says enough how boring such people are, banging on and on with the same phrases. But it was marginally more interesting than the programme uninterrupted.

Saturday February 4 1995

When I came down about 1 a.m. to fill my water bottle, I found him cooking bacon and toast on the grill. ‘That’s not my bacon, I hope?’ ‘No, should it be?’ Still, he’d cleaned the grill afterwards.

For the first time for – how long? - I was up and out by eleven. I suddenly thought I’d go and look at the river, and see if it was especially swollen. I was so glad I did, it was so mild that I didn’t put my gloves on or button my coat. I turned off under H’smith Bridge, down to the Lower Mall. The sun was out, the river was full of eights and fours, perhaps even the Oxford and Camb. crews. I suppose they do train on the Thames, and the boat race is only a month or so away. I leant over the wall for a bit and saw that the tide was going out. The river looked quite as usual, with the mud-banks about thirty feet broad. I noticed some clumps of some plant or other, possibly a sort of ragwort or something, not the sort of plant to be submerged for half of each day. The sky was cloudless, and when it’s cloudless, there’s no perspective to remind of you of distance, and today it did seem a pale pale blue bowl turned upside down over my head. Further along the Mall, past some very pretty houses, with huge bays, the boat-houses were all open, and there were rowing-men, again, with huge wide shoulders and knock-kneed short legs. Oh, the sacrifice…

Turned on the rugger for a minute or so. Of course, it’s partly because it’s so wonderful not to have to play ever again, but I do like the National Anthems and the cheering. The French side either didn’t know the words or didn’t sing. The Marseille is too long and too high. Our team sang fluent all through. Then the cheers. Then the game began, so I turned it off.

Have now finished the A. Powell autobiog. Certain longeurs for me, the army bits, for instance. But the wit and perception are unending.

Sunday February 5 1995

I watched a little of a Northern Ireland disscussion. If I were a catholic there, I wouldn’t agree ever to a referendum, because I would be bound to be voted out as a minority. I’m surprised we haven’t heard more about that, Oh, how the Irish talk!

Went to the river again, - it was rising this time. I had forgotten how quickly it comes in, a foot in a couple of minutes. I had mentioned to Mary that I wanted to see how full the river was, in this time of floods. Mary said that it wouldn’t be an issue. ‘Because of the GLC putting in the Thames Barrier.’ The GLC is of course Mary’s own committee. Even the GLC could hardly affect the amount of water coming down the river, only where it goes.

Oh, I quite forget that poor silly Justin rang ostensibly to chat, but actually to ask my advice about his love-affair, (sic). It is too tedious and superficial to detail – in fact, I’ve forgotten – but I was depressed to find he’s still going to the brothel ‘Occasionally.’ Imagine an ‘affair’ in which one is ‘sleeping around’ and other ‘occasionally’ working at a brothel, talking about fidelity. Naturally he hasn’t got job.

So strange, a TV programme about the widows of four British composers, Walton, Ben Frankel, Humphrey Seark and – Bernard Stevens. There was that strange round head, with the black moustaches and eyebrows and thick-rimmed black specs, so round that it gave the impression that his hair and features had been painted on a balloon. And how touchy he was! I can see him, a pathetically committed communist, shrieking at poor Olive Harvey-Preston, ‘I hate your sort.’ Poor little Olive was deaf, dim, a hopeless little life, but committing the unforgiveable sin of living on inherited money – and not much of it, I’d guess. I remember vividly him winning the D. Express competition for a Symphony of Liberation, so there was his wife, 82 now, and looking about 60-ish, fair and rather square, and calm-looking, not unlike Michael Aldridge’s Kirsty, not surprisingly as she too had to deal with a fractions child. It was really strange to find out a bit more about Bernard Fifty years later. It seems his music has been more or less ignored and undervalued. She blamed the fashion for the minimalist and twelve-tone and modern music. We heard some of it, and it sounded to me like a respectable Sibelius follower. And it was played by the B’mouth Symphony…

It seems he abandoned communism after Hungary and 1956. Oh, dear, it makes me think of Mary… I didn’t have to make everyone’s life a misery before a big horrific event made me see the truth. Oh, well, he was a gifted, difficult, driven man, and I’m glad I worked next to him, and had good chats when he felt like it, chats I couldn’t have had with anyone else in the building. He died in 1983. I made him laugh sometimes, which he didn’t do often enough.

Monday February 6 1995

A message from K, when I got back from the shops that Wed was still on. A few minutes later there was a message from R. saying it was cancelled. So I rang back and was somewhat miffed that R. briskly said it was off because he couldn’t make it. I didn’t say anything, but rang K. and said he had been known to come here by himself, and he agreed. I think R. is a bit jealous, well, not exactly jealous, but I sometimes sense that quite common reaction (Roy, Neil etc.) that K. isn’t all that special and not really good enough for me. Little do they know. S. never makes that mistake, far from it.

Why did I, the other day, think of those sand-driven toys that funny little man – what was his name? I can see him now up in the nursery – at B’mouth. The one I remember was an oblong box, about a fort high, standing on its narrow end. In the top was a v. shaped funnel occupying the width of the top of the box with a smallish hole in it. In the bottom was a drawer. In between, on the front of the box was what? You see, so much for sentimental idiots and children’s memories. I think there was a duck or goose going round, and a man with three legs coming out of his head, and a small windmill. I think. You poured sand in the top, and characteristically, I never dreamt of inquiring, or caring, let alone investigating, how it worked. Its colour was thirties eau-de-nil, very nearly Marina green. Mummy had a real Marina green two-piece, long coat, scallop shells somewhere, for a wedding in ’34. Rather a dreary sludgy green. I was about eight? and Donald, ten. We were alone up at the top of the house with him. How suspicious people might be now. No, his orgasms came when he played with the sand-toy. When he was there, he always had to pour the sand in. Perhaps a local craft? After all, B’mouth has a lot of fine golden sands, a cheap driving-force for a toy.

Tuesday February 7 1995

There is a TV ad which is a perfect little picture of the mass of people. Somebody’s coffee is questioned someone else tastes it and pours it into a pot-plant. ‘It is rather bitter’ after a grimace as of one downing a bumper of gall. ‘Have some of my mellow Birds.’ They then sipped cups of pale brown sugar, Marvel, and water. I long to see an advert which says, ‘As the lower- middle class and working-class do not like the taste of coffee…’

Wednesday February 8 1995

I rang K at twelve to see if it was still on, told him about the fresh pasta, and that Tagliatelle Bog, rather than Spag. would be the main dish. He rang back later to say channel 4 had rung and he had to do something for them urgently, so could I come and cook for him there? Well, of course I want him to come here, but with no rent, it was a relief just to supply the pasta and mince, and find all the drink there.

We talked of many things, cash-flow and fleas and Sharron and Interview With a Vampire, and death. It’s a good thing dinner was a success.

The cash-flow problem is because of the nonpayment, not least that fitness-video. They still owe him £4,500. I did ask whether he wanted to see Sharron and he said he did. I was a little concerned that she wanted to come round and he’d rather not. That may be so, but he can’t really say so. He’d seen Interview With a Vampire and thought the same, except that Brad Pitt can’t speak. I must show him bits of Johnny Suéde. As for the fleas, he showed me his bitten ankles. He always sleeps with his feet out at the end of the bed, and he thinks it’s that. But he has also seen them jumping out of the cracks between the floor-boards in the sitting room. The fact that I have never been bitten is neither here or there. I have never been bitten by a mosquito, or any beast. Obviously my blood is unpalatable. But certain people are bitten, Margaret blacking, Lalla etc. They were women with soft varicose-veiny flesh, which I thought the reason. Now K. doesn’t fit that. He wants to do something about it, and – we were already in stitches – I offered, ‘Can’t you spray everything with something?’ I think it’s the mixture of Olympic certainty with complete impracticality that finishes him. Just as we were to make the coffee, he had to go to the ‘phone. The Head of Music at C4, who turns out to be that nice lesbian Valentine Schmidt. Well, nice up to a point. He played the new thing he’d written and was on the ‘phone about half an hour. Good. He obviously feels V.S. will give him a lot of work.

As for death, over the whisky, he asked me if I thought much of death. ‘Yes, more every day.’ He had obviously been thinking about me. He said he couldn’t wait to read the first ten years of my diary – well, that’s post–obituary stuff. Out of a pause, he said, ‘I’ll be the age you are now in 2029. And you’ll be 103.’

I think if I have nothing else to justify my existence, it would be that sentence in one of his letters, ‘You always inspire me.’ With someone of his gifts, that is satisfying. There’s no one like him.

Thursday February 9 1995

Turned on one of those morning magazine programmes, and caught a hulking transsexual – why are they always granite-faced lorry drivers who find themselves women trapped in a man’s body. The presenter asked, ‘And what stage are you at, at the moment?’ ‘Well, Anne, I’m in a sort of No Man’s Land.’ Er - yes.

No-one laughed. Serious subject, you see. They only laugh with the right label.

Wrote to K. enclosing a copy of Mrs. Beeton on fleas. I daresay the actual sprays and so on, are different. Isn’t DDJ banned, or is that only on farms? But I hope he’ll get the idea. I had a good idea while I was writing. I’ll write a version of Trees about fleas, and write it into the sheet- music for his b’day.

Went to the film ‘Disclosure’, Michael Douglas and Demi Moore. First twenty-five mins – sharp, quick, quite witty dialogue in the New York manner. But I found the odds too heavily weighted for creditability against M.D. It was another of three films where I was appalled at the underlying assumption of American society. If so it can be called. Janet took me to La Perla after. Veal lemon and orange caramel, both good. House wine watery, Janet Brown joined us, a nice little body. I hadn’t realised that she sometimes slept at Janet’s flat when she was TVing at the Centre or whatever. Fascinating, Janet’s fairly scruffy sofa in her fairly scruffy tho’ comfortingly homely flat. Especially as she picked up her case from the Basil St. Hotel where she stayed last night, with her white Rover. Well, she is Scots. I love these little moments when a unexpected charm opens in the conversation. I told Janet my opinion of E.H. Young’s Celia, Janet B. chimed in, and said she’d had a book of Janet M’s by Elizabeth Jane Howard for six months – ‘I’m about halfway through. I read a page or two when I can. You should see Janet’s library.’ I said carefully that I had. Janet M. came in quickly to say about my books in case worse might be coming. What hardihood people have in revealing themselves and the people they move among, where six months is a reasonable time to read a book. Our taxi journey was odd. In the Talgarth Rd we came to a standstill for all the world like the rush-hour, something I’ve never experienced before at 11.30 at night. Accident? Road works? We never found out as I advised turning off down the North End Rd. and B’s Court Rd. But it was a bit of a strange day altogether. On the way in at seven o’clock I found myself alone on the up escalator at Leicester Sq., for the first time in 50 years, at any time let alone 7.0.

Oh, and in my letter, about death I wrote, ‘I have as little Death Wish as anyone you’re likely to meet. The only real reason I can imagine for wanting to leave the world would be because you were no longer in it.’

Friday February 10 1995

Set out to Mary’s at 2.30 to the Halifax in H’Smith for the £100 she wanted, as she can’t get out. Of course, when I got out at Willesden Green, it was raining. The pavements are so poor here, that is almost impossible not to step in quite deep pools. I took her a bagful of books, the Tynan letters, the Powell journals, a Robert Barnard ‘tec story, and a new one by Lesley Grant- Adamson. Faber, who don’t know about ‘tec stories. Not very good.

Then I struggled out again into the rain, to get her prescription and her shopping. I turned into the first chemist in Cricklewood B’way. A grey-haired man in a white coat looking certain of himself, a fortyish woman with dark bags – she has a hard life – as assistant, and re-ordering cosmetics efficiently and with authority over the ‘phone, and a rabbit-toothed girl, who yet seemed to know what she was doing. You felt the shop was well-run. I asked where the Giant supermarket was ‘Up Cricklewood Lane.’ She said, ‘on the left.’ After all, everyone knows where Cricklewood Lane is. I must say, the supermarket is rather a ghastly place. Very large in acreage, but, as supermarkets go, rather sparsely filled. Of course the extra space should make it more pleasant, but it is so inadequately and so harshly lighted that it is quite intimidating. The food looks far from its best, the meat counters, signs and all, are like the cheapest sort of butchers the fish looked dubious. Luckily Mary is vegetarian. I didn’t buy my dinner, two brimming bags, £11 odd, food enough she said, for a fortnight.

At the check-out a nice black family chatted. When they left, the father said to the child ‘Say bye-bye, Grandad.’ Hm. If you never see children, let alone have one of yr. own, you never get over the shock!

Saw scrap of Only Fool and Horses. A perfectly built gag. Del, sucking up to a new girl-friend, ‘Oh yes I’m into ballet. I’m a real fan of that Nijinsky’ ‘Nijinsky?’ ‘Yes, I was thinking of booking a seat next week.’ ‘Nijinsky’s dead.’ ‘Is she?’

Saturday February 11 1995

A strange man left the flat upstairs at 8.5. It was unusual at that time on a Sat. So I looked. 5’9’ crinkly brown hair brushed back, turned up nose, about 35. If blood starts dripping through the ceiling, I shall be ready.

As no rent had appeared for the second week, I left a note saying £120, otherwise I might have to… I got a note back, saying that he would move out today, and £60. The other £60 will come later, and he suggested he leave a painting behind as surety. ‘It may mean nothing to you, but it means everything to me.’ So he made two journeys and went. He brought me the picture, well.

I’m very relieved he’s gone. I find it very unpleasant that he grabbed at anything he could cheat on. I didn’t realize for ages that he was using the bathroom basin instead of the one in his room on the meter. The result is the gas-bill is £25 or so more than it’s ever been, and the rug is permanently soaked and starting to rot. Then there was all the food, and coming in at 3.0 a.m. and cooking and running a bath. I have never had any sort of talk with him, - he’s an odd prickly boy, reacting strongly against any complaint, tho’ all were deserved. Oh, the wonder of having the place to myself, if only for a week. I don’t think K. knows how much I loathe having a lodger.

Rang Hazel and had a good chat, as I want to go to Kew tomorrow.

Sunday February 12 1995

I must have been mad to go to Kew, for the first time for a year or two, on a Sunday. I suppose it’s much fuller on a summer’s day. But far too full for me. I think the thing I find most trying is that all those wretched families, with small children,- far too small to be interested or affected by Kew as itself – would be just as happy in an ordinary park, probably happier because they could bring the dog. I cannot remember the last time I saw someone examining the label on a plant. Except, of course, those one or two of ‘tabloid’ interest such as ‘tea’ or ‘coffee’. I only stayed about twenty minutes. How extraordinary to think that when I first went there, it was two pence was it? That was very cheap even then, just a token charge. It’s now £2.00 for OAP’s and £4.00 for adults.

On the way to tube, I saw a shop not there last time, I think, which sells nothing but stones, ammonites and so on. I brought two alabaster eggs at 99p each. I love eggs inside and out.

Rang K. briefly to ask after his back. Had to cut me short, rang back from the bath, and I remembered the Osteopathy College in Suffolk St.

Monday February 13 1995

There was a curious anniversary of the bombing of Dresden by the US and the USA. All war has to be apologised for, terrible remorse felt, but one does feel apologies should start with the Germans. I’m thankful to say that the prime minster of Saxony struck the right note. ‘If we think we don’t need mercy, we will become merciless ourselves.’ It was news to me that Saxony has a Prime Minister. President Kohl, or is it Cohl? – seems all powerful and to speak for the whole of Germany. So Prime Minster seems hardly the right title.

Quite a good line in an otherwise humdrum piece, ‘I want to be able to look at you whenever I want, till I die.’

Cleaned the stairs, and hoovered the hall and dining room. Exhausted.

Tuesday February 14 1995

Cleaned drawing-room fairly well, and as usual had stripped to my pyjama trousers by the end, and was soaked with sweat. Just as I sank in the corner of the sofa, K. rang, to say Stan L. was working with a French girl, and her diction was so poor she couldn’t be understood on the tape at all, and would I give her a couple of diction lessons? ‘I should charge £20 an hour at least’ said K. ! So I will. Later in the day dear Stan L. rang, how his English has improved!

I did get everything ready and more or less clean before R. arrived, looking better, and not that most unbecoming cropped hair. He was full of excitement, someone had holed themselves up in a house, No 32 or 37, he’s 57, about ten houses away. He’d turned the gas on, threatened to blow the house if… But R. never found out what he wanted. ‘There were three fire-engines and an ambulance, and some police, and the road was roped off. And the next door neighbor was leaning out of the window watching.’ I don’t think it could have been a serious threat, or the police would have evacuated the nearby houses. They must have an instinct about these things after long experience, whether someone means it or not. As for the neighbor, shall I ever forget when D. and I were once in Gt. Marlbrough St. coming out of the back door of M&S – Christmas time, it was – we were very considerably speeded on our way by the police announcement of an IRA bomb in Oxford St. We hurried in the opposite direction, to be met by crowds streaming towards the bomb. It wasn’t just a scare either. The bomb exploded shortly afterwards, killing the man defusing it. It is important to keep reminding oneself that the vast majority of people have no imagination whatever. Not even about themselves.

Dinner asparagus soup, chump chops with a new to me, glaze, of r.c. jelly and Dijon mustard, which I thought rightly would be to R’s taste. The Haagen-Dazs strawberry ice. It is really delicious but not really worth the price £3.59.

R. tells me my dear watch will be ready on the 24th, and will cost £25. I am so relieved, as with my pen and pencil, it is my most treasured possession. I think the inscription will just about last my time. I imagine K. occasionally finding it in a drawer, and thinking of me for a moment. The usual warm comforting evening. Told him a bit about Lalla.

Wednesday February 15 1995

A letter from Lalla, quite offensive really, and not a word of praise for the reduction of the tax. It shows that she still doesn’t understand that she and the Trust are the same thing to the Revenue. I wonder why she thinks her name is on them. I really shall give her up if this goes on. The ironies are getting too hot for me.

Oh, Stan’s French girl rang up. Her English is quite fluent. She is living between Victoria and Pimlico, Ranelagh Grove. Used to be quite smart that triangle. Her accent is fairly thick, and particularly the inflections are very un-English. Otherwise I don’t quite see why see’s so incomprehensible in a song, where inflections are more or less given by the music.

More football hooliganism in ‘Ireland v England ‘friendly’ in Dublin. English National Front members seemed to be most to blame. The usual throwing ripped-up wood with no regard for where it’s going. And the usual football heads wheeled on to say ‘It’s nothing to do with football, it’s a law and order matter.’ But I’m afraid it is a football matter. I’m afraid, as with cars, the insistence of Englishmen on not growing up and going on with their games and toy cars, gives those with strong narrow views a soft target.

This Is Your Life, a programme I despise, I can still watch very occasionally when, for a few rare people, it can be blown apart, by extreme force of personality, of one sort or another, - bottomless sincerity, Sybil T or extreme wit, as Spike Milligan, the subject tonight. No sooner had the first surprise flight from Australia been announced than Spike stood up and said ‘How much is this costing?’ Later, in response to his work for charity, no less a capture than J. Paul Getty came on. Just as I had always imagined, he looks shy, plain, hiding behind glasses and hair and moustache, and huge flat feet at ballet-turn-out angles. He was carrying a framed bank- note. Spike said ‘He’d given so many millions to charity, I thought he must be getting short, so I sent him that banknote. On the back it says ‘In event of bankruptcy, break glass.’

Thursday February 16 1995

The film tonight is Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers, I couldn’t see it. I find I have instinctively seen none of his films, except Born On The Fourth Of July. He is, to me the epitome of American sentimentality. Marines crying in foxholes. Oh dear.

Agnes rang up to change up apt., and put it off a week. Good.

Friday February 17 1995

Our wedding day, thirty-seven years ago. So I was delighted that K. rang quite fortuitously, amid acoustic screams of laughter, so I thought he was in a pub somewhere, after I realised that it was him. The laughter was because he’d spoken into a lighter in the car instead of the ‘phone. He was with Simon of Music House and A.N. other, on their way to Anglia overnight, and would I feed the cat? He said he’d fed Boo ‘early’ this morning, so would I go early?

After missing Sharron two or three times, eventually caught her at the studio. It seems the car has finally given up, to the point of at least a £350 bill. ‘I’ve dumped it outside Kevin’s.’ She used to make such a point of never being able to do without it. Ah well, I told her about the cat, and said she had been meaning to go in to replace the cat-food. It seems she provided that refrigerator full, and means to go on doing so. Well, it is her cat, I suppose. She said they’d had a ‘nice’ night last Thursday week. I asked about the frame for the Starfish, which is at present lurking in a deep pool behind the carriage clock, she said those frames were at Kevin’s. I’m afraid she’s still hanging on. Someone’s asked her out for a real date, - a party… I don’t envy him, at the moment. K, I mean, tho’ I don’t envy the date either. She’s certainly still in limbo.

In the p.m. to the Coronet to see the new film ‘Barcelona.’ I was turned back at the door by the funny little man who runs it. The films had not arrived – from Brighton. What had arrived instead was Ken B’s Much Ado. I said despite him being my lodger… I say that sort of thing from time to time just to test that nobody believes it. And I could see he didn’t. So I turned tail and went home.

Janet rang at the end of dinner, to say would I have pasta with her at Café Pasta in Ken. High. St. – at 5.0!! Had to reveal to her how impossible that was. After all, what would I do the rest of the evening, apart from having to have another meal at 10.30, or I wouldn’t sleep a wink. Not to mention that I wouldn’t have the appetite for pasta at five o’clock.

The verandah divider snapped off by the gale. Bother. I bet R will take ages. Well, beggars can’t be…

Saturday February 19 1995

Over to K’s at 1.45, compromising on the time in case he didn’t come back until late, or even stayed an extra night, very much on the cards in K’s life. Not to mention that cats are almost invariably over-fed. In the wild they would have work hard to catch something, and that might not happen all that often. Cats specially, like big cats, might catch a rabbit and eat it all, and then sit digesting for the inside of a week.

Found the Chubb lock open, and went in to find him calling out Hullo. He was having a shit. Amusing. He said he’d been up all night. He looked it. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ ‘No.’ ‘I’ve got to go to bed.’ ‘I don’t want a coffee.’ He gave me a hug, and said he was sorry to have got me up there. I said, truthfully, that it was worth it just for a hug and to see he was safe. He was wearing his red velvet smoking jacket with the silk revers. and a couple of sizes too large. I think I said that, the second time I saw it. If it had been ten years or more ago, he would have got angry. He just gave me a brief subtle pitying side-glance. Today I left him on the doorstep, looking down at me, as I said, ‘Go to bed. You have tiny little eyes.’ At the gate I said, You have tiny little red eyes.’

I’ve always noticed people with big eyes get red lids easily.

To the Coronet for Barcelona, after all. Left after about half an hour. Another ‘Amateur’, exacerbated by my ear. The Coronet sound system and the excessively ‘naturalist’ sound and diction. I missed a lot, not that I cared. If Yank films go on trying to be European, I shan’t walk in, let alone out. Three other people left before I did. Oh and another feature of such films is that the actors are all conscientiously unattractive.

I have now more or less finished Celia. It’s much to D’s mother credit that she liked E.H.Young. I knew it was partly because she was rather anti-men, but it must have been quite a leap for her to concentrate on what are certainly ‘serious’ novels. But I have to say first, that I can well imagine anyone in TV or radio saying ‘There isn’t much action.’ A message on the machine from Janet to say not to mention it to Hazel, as I’d half-suggested doing, for Sian Williams or whoever. Funny little thing, anyone would think she was in charge of a 100% blockbuster!

Saturday February 19 1995

These last few private days, re-jigged bathroom shelves, because of the extra space from Justin’s green shelves, I can just see K’s face when I tell him how tiring it’s been. Partly because he doesn’t deal with books at all, partly because he’s young. But anyone finds re-arranging books, up the steps, down again, realising another shelf is needed so all has to be moved seven or eight shelves down etc etc.

Exhausting. At the back of one shelf, I found Edna’s The British Nature Book, 1922. A pressed flower in a page with a news cutting about marsh harriers, ‘I liked this – you will, too.’ 1931. By one of those coincidences so common in life, but which people still resist in fiction, I’d seen a programme about M-Hs. There are now 150 breeding-pairs in Norfolk and some elsewhere. In the book it was described as virtually extinct – and in my Observer’s Bird Book from 1939, it didn’t even appear, So, you see, everthing doesn’t always get worse.

Monday February 20 1995

Hazel rang in the middle of the morning to say that Tom had had a card from S. in Barcelona, saying how much he’d enjoyed reading the books. So he’s in Barcelona already – so much for the film schedules and secretaries. I’ve always hated that about films. In the theatre, you’re always in the same building.

K. rang about Tuesday, and said ‘Presents? Plural presents?’ Went to pay the video payment, and was struck by the ease with which I went up and down the staircases at Shepard’s Bush tube. I must remember how painful it was.

Tuesday February 21 1995

Hazel rang to back up yesterday’s message. I think it was partly to distract herself from the horror of the new carpets being laid in the bedroom and bathroom. I wonder how much more they charge coming to such a comparatively remote house. She has thrown away a lot of clothes, also revealed that Kim has helped her change her hair and make-up and clothes. They certainly needed it, but then on the one occasion I met her, so very much did Kim’s! What a name.

K. rang at 12.0 – he was off to Channel Four for lunch, and tonight is off, he’s got too much to do. So I rang R. and said did he want to come on his own. He said would I mind if he didn’t as he was doing his tax and didn’t want to stop. It’s no use pretending my spirits don’t rise when anyone cancels dinner! So I went out and brought a guinea fowl for a little treat.

Justin rang. He and David are finished and they hadn’t even begun. How odd that so many gay affairs are so superficial.

I finished my re-writing of Trees for K’s b’day. Bought a large envelope for the sheet-music, 25p. No wonder they made the money metric – what would we have thought of one brown envelope being 5/-?

Decided to copy the re-write on to p.c. of Blake’s Ghost of a Flea. Just as I had my coat on to go to the Tate, the bell rang. Now I never answer the bell, because no one I know or want, rings it. I never allow ‘dropping in.’ K has a key. I wait to see whoever it is walk away, and I can’t remember when I last called someone back. It proved to be a slightly doubtful looking couple. They went down into the street, and peered into the area. They went back up the steps and rang twice more. I shrank behind the curtains, eventually I suppose Katrina H. came out on the balcony. So often her friends have rung my bell regardless of the clear name on it. However after a little exchange, they went away. John Morey? Goodness knows, and who cares, as long as it wasn’t a burglar’s spy-out…

Oh, slept in without waking, till 11.30. Long theatre dream – I’d love to know really how long – I was filming, as a lawyer, but based at the Alex, B’ham. Later tried to find filming location and theatre, but found actors from other theatre and their stage-door. I was playing opp. D and A. N. other, and found them at the location on traffic-island. Director etc. sitting in water up to the waist in the flooded rowing boat. Director a mixture of Peter Wood and Alan Badel. Perhaps as well the dream finished before he could deliver more than a baleful glance. Still v. dull.

Wednesday February 22 1995

I have now finished Fleas.

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a flea A flea whose hungry mouth takes hold Of those poor ankles in the cold A flea that looks at skin aflame And bares his jagged fangs to maim.

A flea that may in summer bite, Poor Kevin several times a night Upon his legs the bites are red And itch like mad when he’s in bed

Poems are made by fools like me But only God can make a flea.

Stayed in all day, as it was frightful all day, some violent claps of thunder, torrential rain, and gales. K. rang to say he was going to Amsterdam for his b’day weekend. ‘Who with?’ ‘Well, it depends who I meet between now and then.’ ‘You know it’s the pornographic capital of Europe.’ Rang R and tried to arrange, - he said he knew a really good cheap central hotel there.

Oh, another dream this a.m. Again theatrical. Finishing up at a restaurant. Table covered with bright transparent pale green drinks and jellies, most of which I immediately spilt. My partner was Gillian Taylforth/Jo Tewsom combined. Ian Holm joined us at the table. It is, I suppose, faintly interesting that most of the dramatic persons of my dreams are either loved ones or people who sharply criticise or disapprove of me.

Thursday February 23 1995

I was cold today – I don’t know why. It may have been partly a tiresome letter from The Alliance, but I was cold after lunch, and it didn’t seem any colder outside.

Oh, quite forgot to say that K rang yesterday to say Thursday but perhaps not, because of film, so what about lunch tomorrow. Friday. He’s got a deadline on Friday night, so I said I’d cook lunch for him. This p.m. Sharron rang to say was dinner still on for tomorrow, and she’d bring it. Oh dear, I do hate doing two. However… when I told her about Amsterdam she said rather dismissively, that she supposed he was going with his transvestite friends. It is very interesting to me, how many of the people around us use that slight denigrating tone about K. I suppose it’s partly that only undiluted praise of him will do for me… no, it is there. I suppose it is because K. is the most positive creative person in our circle, who starts things and makes them happen. I never thought about the trannies.

To film ‘I.Q.’ with Janet. She was very dismissive about it, saying that it was so noisy that it gave her a headache. I found it a flawed but acceptable comedy. The three excellent leads, Walter Matthau, Meg Ryan and Tim Robbins, have none of them let me down yet. I am beginning to fear that Janet is not so sensitive to fine acting as I thought. Had bought some ham on the bone. A strain of a day tomorrow.

Friday February 24 1995

Up and ready to go out by quarter to twelve and shop here and there, when K. rang to say he’d got everything for lunch except salad, while I was shaving with the radio on. A relief, as it meant little or no shopping. Then at quarter to twelve he rang to say he’d run out of fax paper. Could I get a fax roll at my newsagent for his Panasonic, - ‘It’s quite an upmarket shop, isn’t it? Plenty of faxes round here.’ I didn’t ever bother to ask, as I couldn’t bring myself to buy salad at the corner shop. At the stationery Shop in the Broadway Mall (sic) I said to an idiot girl I wanted a fax roll ‘for my son’ – I usually say that because they feel protective – and that I had no idea what such a thing even looked like. She took me to some shelves with four or five different sized wrapped rolls with three measurements printed on each end.

She had no idea which might fit Panasonic. The cheapest was £1.95. So I struggled to the telephone with all his presents, the two cups and saucers, and the sheet music of Trees protected by a piece of cardboard. I said what size was the roll. He said, pause, pause, ‘I haven’t got a ruler.’ Then, ‘21ins.’ I asked for the other two measurements, but he’d long ago thrown away the wrapping of the last roll. I said I’d settle for something, and fuck it. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘by the way, it’s not a Panasonic, it’s a Sharp, V175.’ – or some such figures. Back at the shop, I got a male assistant, although only about 25 possibly the manger. He couldn’t say which roll it was right for which model. However, he had a ruler, and the only one that was exactly 21ins was the cheapest. I brought it, and to bring a tiresome story to a quick end, it was the right one. When I got there, he’d started the lunch and in fact cooked it, parsnip soup – first time for him, and didn’t like it much, coarse and sweet but it was a very good parsnip soup as such, because parsnips are coarse and sweet – very neat omelettes, with a bit of grated cheese in with the bacon and mush. Delicious, and some organic red wine. But before lunch he poured us a glass of wine each, and opened his presents on the sofa. I think he really liked them. Having just tried to cut up some bacon, he relished the kitchen–shears. Pointed to the ridges, between the handles, ‘What’s that for?’ ‘Opening stiff screw tops.’ ‘Excellent.’ Such a vogue-word still with the young. And the cups, plain white with a thin blue edge-band, he loved. He is far from wanting only mugs. ‘You can’t afford all this.’ ‘I saved up pound coins in the Wedgwood vase.’ He had a tear hovering.

We had a good talk over lunch about R’s prospects, which worry both of us. For instance, two or three years ago I said he ought to go and run a rep, and he said he didn’t want to go out of London. He stayed and what has he done? Nothing. K. said ‘And now he doesn’t like London.’ ‘Really?’ ‘I think he’ll end up being a farmer, doing something in the country.’ Well, of course, that’s exactly what he looks like, Will Belton from the Belton Estate, sensitivity and all.

He picked up the soup-plates, I said ‘Who’s feeding the cat while you’re away?’ and as he vanished to the kitchen, he said, ‘You are.’ We ate the omelettes and he said, ‘Will you be free to feed Boo?’ So sweet, as if I have anything else to do.

As for Trees – Fleas, it made him splutter with laughter. ‘Sing it to me.’ He told me he couldn’t play the piano music. ‘I used to memorise the music and play by ear, and my piano teacher was old and went to sleep.’

I’d said to him was he going to a ‘trannie’ club. ‘I might.’ So when I kissed him goodbye, I said ‘Now don’t do anything silly.’ He promised…

On my way back took ‘Celia’ back to Janet. Her stairs are straight out of that early Jane Fonda film ‘Barefoot in Central Park.’ - is that the right title? - I panted for a bit. Her friend, Shirley, who types for her from time to time, is a dear supple funny woman, not at all subservient, - when I arrived, coping with neurotic electric typewriter? Goodness knows, something with a keyboard, that wouldn’t take a new ribbon, because the two given to Janet by the stationary shop down the road were the wrong sort. How thankful I am that I am just old enough, to have escaped wanting any sort of writing machine. Just as well as anything mechanical I have ever owned, has been basically flawed in one way or another – look at the downstairs TV set and the old water-boiler. But I must except from that this pen – will it fall from my hand? – my pencil and my watch. Janet gave me a couple of copies of the London Review of Books, good diary extracts from Alan B. on the film Madness of G III. Quite funny about it having to be renamed The Madness of King George because American producers were afraid their audiences might fear they had missed the Madness of George I and II.

On the way back to give Sharron dinner, already tired, I found something wrong with the Piccadilly line. I waited ten minutes on the west-bound line – only one train came in, packed to the roof at twenty to four, as if it was the rush-hour, instead of one every two minutes – decided to go north and come back again, to be sure of a seat, as my legs drop off now if I don’t sit down. But I waited there till 4.30 and every train, very infrequent, was crammed. And the platform was full of hideous half-term families. Modern children are even more impossible, not checked at the extreme of cheek or ceaseless movement and noise. Children cannot be allowed to interrupt ‘grown-ups’ lives or conversations at will. The trouble is there are fewer and fewer ‘grown-ups’ these days. In the end went back to west-bound platform, intending to get a bus before the rush- hour, and got on a half-empty train in the tamest way. But there was a mix-up, because, even from Arsenal, where the train is always only a quarter-full from the end of the line, there were people standing. Well, at least I hadn’t got to get to dinner. Darling Sharron brought the main course, pasta and sauce and Parma ham and black olives. I did enjoy it, and ate it quicker than she did, but it was far from ideal for me. The pasta was penne, my least favorite shape. It was fresh, but took the usual fifteen minutes instead of the four she suggested. Perhaps that shape… the sauce was very garlicky, quite sharp and immediately left that metallic feel to my mouth as if my saliva was distilled aluminum, which no one has ever seemed to have recorded. After it I can taste nothing - Is it because garlic doesn’t grow in Caithness? But I did enjoy the olives and the real Parmesan she brought and the wine.

I don’t mean I mind that – she is as poor as I am, but I am interested that she did not comment on it, when ‘bringing a bottle of wine’ is such a sine qua non of this barbarous age. So all I had to do was lay the table, restful.

She talked about the situation at length. She has decided not to go and see him again. That is a step forward. Because she still loves him. When she passes the end of the road, she feels a pang of course, for that whole life, let alone the affair. ‘I think now there’s something rather crude about him, when he comes in, I …’

I asked after the date she was going on when we last spoke. ‘I slept with him. You miss the cuddles. It wasn’t the greatest sex but it was all right. The trouble is, he felt it meant more than it did. He sent me a slightly worrying valentine.’

She could not treat this in the least lightly, not surprisingly. She is still seeing deterioration in K., equally unsurprisingly. ‘I don’t think he understands really loving someone as you and I do.’ Now I have sometimes thought that, in that he hasn’t wept on the pink sofa. The nearest was all those years ago, when thingummy Sheppard came round, and he was much shaken. You could argue that his first ‘great love’ dumped him and he decided not to open himself to that sort of pain again. Er- yes. But also have to add in, that he has always been the loved rather than the lover, and that he is completely confident sexually. And that he has finished their affair. I cannot give much weight to her judgment of him.

I found more disturbing her saying ‘I feel as if I’m 22 – that’s when I met him – and have missed those years, as if I haven’t developed.’

I cannot say that I regard that as his fault.

When she left – she no longer has the car, so she has to go by tube, which she once said she’d never so late at night – she clung to me and said how she needed to talk to me. I hope so, because I need to know how she’s feeling. I have to tread a delicate path, because I cannot invite criticism of him. I try to be helpful to her.

Starring in late film actor called Scott Plank.

Saturday February 25 1995

An Arnold Schwarzenegger film, ‘He goes to mars to find his brain and meets a mindless madman.’

An article on the centre page of the Daily Mail today; a series of photo-interviews with twelve boys of twelve, who are going to be in the same year at Eton with Prince William. Boys of twelve should not be asked in public for their opinion about anything. And Prince William has quite enough difficulties facing ‘ordinary’ boys at Eton without this. Poor royal family, what chance have they now from tabloid assassination? Highly unhealthy all round.

Went out shopping with little money, after those hideous letters from the DSS and Alliance. A packet of Parkinson Bangers, really good sausages, at 99p reduced. Whisky, Hungarian red wine. And £2.59 left over. So he’s safely in Amsterdam… I hope.

Sunday February 26 1995

His 34th b’day. A lot, too much, about Stephan Fry’s disappearance. Good heavens, yesterday it was the lead story on the front page of the independent. My only interest in it is my confirmation of him as an amateur. And a spoilt amateur. Cold.

The ‘phone rang at two thirtyish and I thought it was Hazel, rather early. But it was Margie ringing up partly to talk to me, but also, I could tell, to ask me if I had a number in Amsterdam. I was able to make her feel alright about it by saying that I hadn’t but neither had K. before he left. We had a lovely chat, tho’. She has a pretty laugh. Her speech is a little affected by her sore mouth, and no salvia. What a wretched time she has of it. She can’t hold the ‘phone and has a speaker. Hazel did ring later, - her calls give me much easy pleasure. Then I went over to Elfort Rd. I never get over the cupboard love of cats. The creatures twines itself round my legs when it knows I’m going to feed it. Once fed, it ignores me. If I’m not feeding it, it ignores me completely. I don’t know which is the sillier or more contemptible, a cat or a dog. The dog’s pathetic ‘responsiveness’ and ‘love’ is marginally more repulsive because sillier. I wouldn’t say thank you for either of them. I prefer fish or birds because they are in their tank or their cage.

I found all our lunch plates and knives and forks on a tray by the sink from Friday, so I washed them up. I can’t imagine what K’s critics would say. I simply say, he had a deadline, and, as he once remarked to me about such housework, ‘I have better things to do with my time.’ I had nothing else to do, and it saves him a little time and the coming back with nothing to be done – except the fireplace. I would have done the grate if it weren’t so difficult for me to kneel now.

One of the reasons we have no great expressive actors or artists under 50 is that children have been encouraged to ‘express’ themselves and are never checked.

Monday February 27 1995

Yes, the hideous letter from the Alliance and DSS. I can’t be bothered with the details. However, I rang the Alliance and arranged, and put it behind me after a bad weekend.

Oh, forgot to record the bizarre behavior of the one of the girls in Sharron’s flat. She admits to daydreaming for two hours at a time! The other day the ‘phone rang. One of the girls answered it, and called ‘It’s for you, Sharron.’ The daydream girl dashed out of her room, grabbed the ‘phone, and despite shouts of ‘It’s for Sharron.’ Talked a few incoherent sentences and put the ‘phone down. That is more than odd, it’s unbalanced. Drugs?

R. rang and will come to din’s tomorrow and repair verandah divider. I wonder what they’re really called.

K. rang at 11.0 p.m. Back safe. ‘Did you have a good time?’ ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’ Such a relief to me always when he’s safe again.

Tuesday February 28 1995

Dear R. has just gone. He has been so kind. First of all he brought me my dear watch. Cleaned and working, It was £23? Instead of £25. Very good, apart from anything else, it’ll release me from daddy’s nasty little chrome affair. It takes at least fifty ‘winds’ for it to work thro’ the night, and a good many more during the day. Typical of daddy.

He also repaired the balcony-divider. Very important as they’ve got going on the garden next door. They’ve put trellises up all over the nice brick walls instead of just on the top as is appropriate. The objections are twofold, the planets against brick walls are one of the major beauties of an English garden. And when the trellises are fully planted, the sun will not get so readily to the wall to warm it up to give protection to interesting tender plants.

R. also said he’d do the TV set next week. Yes, he is too cautious and secretive, and seems to have made an inanimate mess of his professional life. He hasn’t mentioned Zoë at all – mind you, I’m quite grateful but he should have. Nevertheless he is so good to me and so sweet natured that I always finish an evening with him with pleasure. Not that he had anything new to say. How weird him leaving the fish so long.

Oh, and S rang at last. Lunch on Friday at the Pelican. ‘Had I got the welles?’ ‘No.’ ‘Oh, the post, I’ll bring one on Friday.’ Later I found they ‘couldn’t deliver’ from in hall, obviously brought down from upstairs. Hm. Sounded a bit frantic as usual.

Wednesday March 1 1995

It’s always a pity when I have to have dates on successive days. I shall have to collapse tomorrow.

Tonight Tim came round and brought the dinner. He brought a broccoli and cheese quiche, some good new pots, and some French beans, and a bottle of wine. I provided some Stilton and celery soup, and struggled back from the shops to make an apple meringue. He was in good form despite having no work. His hair cut too short in brutal style.

We had a fascinating talk about his early career. Only the other minute to me, of course, I knew that he had good fortune to start at Northampton, one of the very few reps ten years or so ago to offer a young actor a range of parts in a co. over six or eight months. I don’t think there are any now. His debut was a disciple in Jesus Christ Superstar, a production that reopened the theatre after a refurbishment. Of course, the theatre wasn’t ready. Despite the gold–embossed programmes, they never got beyond Act I at the technical. Of course, it was a disaster unlike Northampton; he was also in ‘Morning Departure.’ Gracious that was stale and pedestrian in 1956, let alone 1986. We also talked about my family, at his request, Donald and Ann etc. And his scotch ancestry led him to want to see the Highland dress.

Another lovely warm evening, and I think I can be some encouragement even if not help any more.

I’m just grateful he’s back safe.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 132

March 2 1995 - April 21 1995.

Thursday March 2 1995

I spent today in my dressing gown till my bath at 6.30, just sitting and recovering a little muscle- tone. Tomorrow is a tiring day – lunch with S., lovely as that is, and Paul’s play in the evening.

The only outside event was Roy ringing up ‘from our birthplace.’ ‘Have you told yr. family you’re there?’ ‘Of course not.’ Well, actually it wasn’t of course, that’s why I asked. He wanted to tell me of a theatrical happening at some fringe theatre where he was seeing The Dream. It was a pretty curate’s egg production but thoroughly diversified halfway through. Across from him was sitting a bearded American hippy and two children, one, a fat ten-year-old was violently sick onto the stage, and then again, even more violently, projectile vomit half- covered the acting-area. The performance went on, with the actors playing round the sick. But then came the curtain-call…

Who but Roy would have called that vomit out of that boy at the one perf. he witnessed? Told me one perf. was quite extraordinary, starveling and a fairy, Nick Caldicot.

Friday March 3 1995

Forgot my travel permit, and had to go back to get it, so that I was ten minutes late at the Pelican. As S. has usually been quarter of an hour late at least, every other time, I was amused and touched that it turned out he’d rung home to see where I was.

He was looking very well, thank goodness, after all the horrors of Tahiti, which he caught well when he described his bites. ‘A few round the ankle, the next morning looked like an inch-wide raw band – I thought for a bit it might be a Kaposi’s Sarcoma.’ So it’s not only vegetation that grows monstrously. It seems the film is a joint Catalan/Freud TV prod., ‘and will never be seen here.’ Probably a relief. He has had two major possible jobs ‘teetering on a knife edge.’ He has had the really very dud idea of a season at the Criterion, of what? – a couple of Peter Barnes plays. Oh dear, S. is still in parts of him, ‘an unreconstructed ‘60s person’. Lets put on a season of the plays that never went in the first place. I remember going to see ‘The Ruling Class’ at the Piccadilly at the time, with Derek Godfrey. Stars know a star part as a rule, and they’d turned it down. A blurred affair. So S. has got together with the woman who owns? and certainly runs, the Criterion, Sally Green. The Cri, opening again, beautifully and completely redecorated, all set to become what it was before closure, one of the half-dozen most desirable venues in the West End, has had a succession of pallid failures. She has access it seems, to certain amount of money, but not much else. He told me of the plans for the season, how, at first, he was to play The Ruling Class, and the other play with a title I can’t remember, - something about Harry – had been offered to Bob Hoskins at considerable alia, with no success. So he decided to give up R.C. and offer that real star part (sic) about, so Alan Rickman et cie were offered and turned it down. In the middle of all this, he has been offered – ‘Are you sitting down?’ – the villain in Ace Ventura II. £225,000 dollars. £175,000. Of course he should take that – the Cri. season (a) won’t succeed (b) is without real interest and cannot go on, without some surefire element (c) the Ace money will give him a certain freedom for other good work in a fairly short time. I told him this, but I very much doubt if it got home.

His immediate job starts on Monday. The John Osborne script about Purcell and Charles II. He had lunch with the director, Tony Palmer, last week. ‘He was at Cambridge but he’s an absolute ‘idiot.’ Er, yes. Eliz. Hurley has cried off, and yet another refugee from Eastenders has been called in, Lucy Speed, a little freckled thing. I’m afraid it all sounds rather tacky, as Michael Ball is still playing Purcell.

We talked of the Stephen Fry flight. He knew nothing of it directly, except to tell me that he was to direct it sometime ago with two different stars, but it fell thro’. When this production turned up, S. Gary said he’d have to direct it himself, as he was so hard-up he needed the director’s fee and royalty as well. ‘Is he a good director?’ ‘Not really, not all that good at casting.’ Poor chap, I expect he was persuaded by the money to have Fry as a good commercial prospect. I don’t suppose it’ll last long now.

The Pelican was certainly back to form today. S. had two starters, which both looked much the same, smoked chicken Salad, and something with sliced boiled pots in it. He asked for them to be removed – amusing, as they consisted of about fifty per cent of the dish. I had the smoked fish assiette, smoked sole, smoked sprat, smoked salmon, smoked something I don’t know what it was. Then calves liver and onion sauce, melting, plentiful and I quite expected an Animal Liberation Front blockade outside.

S. gave me an American detective story ‘Blind Justice’ by Bruce Alexander. It’s set in the 18th century about Sir John Fielding. ‘A Sir John Fielding Mystery.’ The brother of the novelist. An earnest letter from the novelist tipped in. S wants me to tell him what it’s about and like, so that, obviously he can pretend to the author when he turns up, that he’s read it. My heart sinks. Also showed me a couple of green-ink pcs from Lady Cawdor. Their dogs met. ‘Sorry not to write for so long – I’ve had a Meden-stroke. Now off to Paul R’s production at Kennington’.

Saturday March 4 1995

So I trailed out to Kennington, and sat in some discomfort, to see an ill-written, ill acted piece set in a high rise flat, and mostly consisting of shouting matches. Even more extraordinary, there were all those friends of Paul’s, whom I haven’t seen for years. Ben as nice as ever, the dirty one, whose name escapes me, still just as dirty – quite clever to keep it at same level – and John Henson, with pregnant wife! Also Roger Hammond and wife. So that with one thing and another, principally no money whatever to buy drinks, and not enough ear to hear what they’re saying, I turned tail and ran at the end, pretending that Neil was calling me from L.A. Oh, it was good sitting quietly down for dinner at home. I shall ring dear Paul tomorrow, and congratulate him on getting it on at all. It seems the (black) director walked out in a temper, saying ‘Have a fucking good production.’

Sunday March 5 1995

K. rang yesterday to say he was coming to dinner tonight and bringing a chicken. We agreed that we were a bit worried about R. He was supposed to turn up at Kennington - Paul had got him comp too – and supposed to turn up at a little piss-up K. had last night.

He did ring just now to say that he’d forgotten both. A close friend from college had dropped dead at 29. How I loathe any young friend experiencing that particular sense of mortality, at an age where all should be golden. The funeral is Tuesday, I think.

Rang Paul and said what I could about the play, which wasn’t much, but I did try to encourage him as much as I could, and say that he must fix his mind on getting another production.

K. said he was having a cash-flow problem, and I owe him all that money. He’s just missed two commercials at £15000 a time. It seems that he is sent the video and actually has to write the music as his audition, which I think is a bit cool. Still, his dog advert is going lavishly out again, and it seems that musicians, unlike actors, get the full royalty through each set of transmissions, instead of a rapidly diminishing percentage each time. I also chatted to Mary and Justin, and Hazel. How seldom most people tell you a good joke or piece of wit.

The Lucy Speed who’s going into S’s film was described today as a ‘real Bethnal Green girl, Cockney born and bred, only one part before EastEnders, her favorite sport is roller skating.’ Left this enticing information on S’s machine, being glad that he’d have at least one intellectual equal for chats between shots.

Monday March 6 1995

Heavenly evening as ever. He didn’t mention the money, and brought some wine and whisky, some mushrooms as well as the chicken. He told me all about the Amsterdam w/e. No, it wasn’t his tranny friends. He was with 39 year old Sonia, who’s a P.A. or something, a career-woman anyway. They saw nothing of A. – it was a Do Not Disturb weekend. Oh, he is artless about such things – or perhaps it’s only with me. For instance, he suddenly said how his last two lovers have said how delightfully big his cock is, and I could see he took an innocent pride in such praise. Funny with a boy who had 44 lovers before he was 22, - you’d think he might have discovered this before. I don’t think it’s huge, no really good lover is huge. 6½ to 7 inches is the best, if it’s good quality.

He scribbled his initials on two places in the R. Times where he’d written what I would call the signature tune. I told him about the lodger’s water-heater and the TV downstairs breaking down. He hid his eyes. He might well, I have such bad luck with machines. But with people… a golden evening.

This p.m. to get my pension, pay £20 tax, and go to see new French film Les Rossaux Sauvages, having its first showing at MGM Panton St. for some reason. Set in 1962, adolescents disturbed by the Algerian War. Such attractive young people, and the wit of reality that still pervades the better French pictures was held throughout.

Started to read the Wells. The intro. is excellent and perceptive and witty. But I had not got far in the body of the book when I found one of my connections unconnected – Sarah Bernhardt’s last appearance in 1920. Now of course, in the whole gesture of the book, it is a very minor error, looked at in one way. But, first S.B. is one of the half-dozen greatest actors of the 19th century, and second, S. makes such a point of correcting O.W.’s myriad inaccuracies, fables and straightforward lies.

I had told him about the TV. He rang this p.m. to say just ‘I’m in the middle of a session, don’t ring back, I’ve got you a TV, Robin will bring it over.’

Oh, when I went to get my pension, I was a little apprehensive of the postal-strike, even though it was not all that successful. In new Modern P.O. at Hammersmith, the seven windows were all manned for the first time. Can it have been some sort of statement?

Barbara New (Barrinton) rang up to say she couldn’t got to the Baron’s Court Theatre to see a young actor called Martin Scott Gilmore because she’s crocked her back. It seems her lodger is doing the cooking, so she must be bad. I told her about it being gay when it opened etc etc. We agreed that is was probably quiet different now, and would I go and report to her, to give him some encouragement. By the time I’d said I would and it can’t be gay now, I said ‘What’s the play?’ ‘In a prison colony.’

Tuesday March 7 1995

Spoke to R. eventually. Sounded a bit bleached. The boy had had ‘a virus’ – magic word now, - and gone on with his stage-mamagement, heaving heavy things about and so on. But he must have had a heart fault to die so young. The funeral was yesterday.

I watched a witty programme attacking vegetarianism. It began, ‘Hitler was a vegetarian teetotal non-smoking opponent of blood-sports.’ And there was G.F. Newman, the idiot who forebode any meat-eating during his last filming, saying, ‘We kill six million sentient beings a day’ and had the amazing lack of sense of proportion and decency – to compare a factory farm with Auschwitz. Not that I agree with factory farming in any way, but you only have to look at cows and sheep grazing to see that god meant us to eat them. What else would they do? Everything eats everything, from the ameba upwards. It’s called nature. On ‘Clive James in Berlin’ or whatever, two dear young people in a club, ‘I’m Marlane!’ ‘I’m Dietrich.’

Wednesday March 8 1995

Wrote to K. about the money. I’d said impulsively that he could have £200 out of the £300 odd in the Halifax. I need hardly add that the water-rate, the gas bill and the monthly tax arrived on Monday. Said I knew he didn’t want me to get into actionable debt.

In the p.m. went to see Quiz Show, so at last I’ve seen the famous Ralph Fiennes. Coo, I was bored. Even glimpsing one frame of a quiz show makes me instantly bored and queasy, and there was quite a lot of quiz. Paul Sco. moved me briefly, quite an achievement. I found R. Finnes insipid, - in looks he reminded me of Griffith Jones. His nervous smiles and underpowered playing struck me as a bit smug.

Thursday March 9 1995

K. rang. ‘No problem.’ He is the most generous boy on earth, in mind and heart, not to mention pocket. He told me he’d missed two commercials £15,000 each. Me: ‘That would have solved all your problems’. Him: ‘And yours.’ It seems musicians ‘audition’ for such things, by being sent the video and actually writing the music, which I think is a bit cool. Still, his Pedigree Chum is going out a lot, and musicans get the same royalty all through, unlike actors’ diminishing returns.

Rang Martin Scott Gilmore, silly name and a rather feeble conventional boy he sounds. When I told him of D’s response to a Dorothy Reynolds studio, he was obviously shocked, and never even dreamt of laughing. At another point he said that three years was ‘much too short a course.’ Which finished him for me.

In the evening to see ‘Little Woman’. The ‘new’ version obviously includes bits of the book that haven’t been seen before, feminist ideas rearing their rather absurd heads. At the end I said to Janet, ‘What a lot of winters they have in America.’ The time scheme was certainly muddled. The three girls were too similar at a glance. W. Ryder has been nominated for an Oscar which is ridiculous. Eric Stolz has a tiny part, which is sensible. Many women feel strongly about L.W. I don’t think I have done more than look at it and been put off by the poor quality of writing and sentimentally. I found this version suffocatingly sentimental. Susan Sarandon did her best. Next film, Ed Wood, with Johnny Depp as a transvestite director.

Friday March 10 1995

Hilarious call from S. on location in Greenwich Maritime Museum. The practical reason for the call was to ask f I’d read and commented on that pastiche 18th century detective-story he gave me the other day, as he was seeing the man on Monday.

He was, as he spoke, in full fig as Charles II. The public were still going round the museum. He came round a corner and down some stairs, an American lady-tourist came round another corner, gave a little scream and curtsied. They’ve already filmed ‘The final curtain-call.’ It includes Letitia Dean and Lucy Speed from Eastenders, Robert Stephens with his new liver and kidney, Vernon Dubtcheff!, Antonio De Sancha!! And – ‘tell K’ – Bill Kenwright. Mary L. said the other day she wondered whether R.S. could start drinking again with a fresh start. How dare Bill Kenwright take a job away from a working actor, but then he would.

He also said he’d had a letter – ‘I won’t tell you who it’s from, you’ll guess at once.’ ‘I’m reading your book, and finding it intriguing and enchanting.’ In 1922 I was groped in the wings at the Old Vic by Michael Macl. I was carrying a spear.’

I’m quoting very inaccurately from memory. When telling Mary, I went on ‘I didn’t put the spear down.’ John G. of course. And he might easily have said it, but still…

Saturday March 11 1995

Re-reading M. Allingham’s Dancers in the Morning, one of D’s favorites. She loved that scene where Lugg is being helped by the little girl, Sarah, to clean the ornaments in the drawing rooms. ‘Toys really.’ There, or a little later, I didn’t note the page, Lugg says, ‘It’s lakes.’ I don’t remember either of us noticing before, which is odd, because I certainly don’t know what it means. I’ve just looked it up, and it means ‘games, tricks’ obs. So it must have survived in Suffolk, which is M.A’s country. Tho’, in that case, odd to put in into Luggs mouth.

In the evening to the play at B. Court Theatre. Wrote a note to the Gilmore boy to say I was going to have to leave at the interval. I had to invent a reason, so I said I had to be in for a call from a dear friend in L.A. I am not one who disagrees with white lies. Strict truth would have obliged me to say that I knew the play was so stupefyingly tedious that I knew I could hardly sit out the first half.

And it was. But the theatre was packed, mostly women, with no suggestion of gayness, a pretty girl in the B.O. and the setting and perf. were much better than the first time, The set painted on the back wall, was very well painted in a naturalist water coloury way. The play opens with a soldier marching in in strictly militaristic fashion. Took down and folded up a flag and marched out through the audience, treading painfully on the foot of a large lady sitting in the front row. She did a silent scream through closed lips, like a tom and jerry cartoon – the best bit of the evening.

Sunday March 12 1995

Sitting up in bed this a.m. before the papers, flicked through Blind Justice by Bruce Alexander, Oh dear, the leading characters, Henry Fielding’s blind brother John, and the narrator, 13 year old Edward Proctor. A feeble murder-detective plot. Lots of 18th century details (sic) dragged in, Tyburn being included by E.P. being forbidden to go to it. The whole affair marginally above Barbara Cartland, and considerably below Georgette Heyer. And when Johnson – ‘Dictionary Johnson.’ – and Boswell and Garrick were brought on, with many infelicitous phrases issuing from their mouths, I gave up. Wrote a short account of it for S.

Dear R. turned up for lunch in his car. I’d asked him if we could go and pick up the laundry and a big bag of compost. He said ‘Why don’t I go and do those things while you’re getting the lunch?’ So he did. However, although it is Sunday, and he left at ten to one, and the distance is about quarter of a mile, he didn’t get back till twenty to two, rather techy. Even dear R. came out with the classic motorist’s remark ‘If you can’t drive out even on a Sunday…’

When he left he took the book up to S. I hope I thanked him enough. I don’t think even he knows how helpful it is to be saved all that exertion.

Monday March 13 1995

How extraordinary – and it’s not a Freudian slip, just distraction, that I did not record the main reason for R’s visit to bring me the new TV from K. and it is new, a beautiful Sony, one of the very best, with such a complicated remote control that I’m nervous of sending myself to Australia by mistake as I expect there’s certain to be a molecular travel button somewhere on it. I am a little troubled that it’s new, as he said he was ‘broke’ with a cash-flow problem. I thought he’d got a spare second hand set from one of his musician friends, that they’d got a free sample, something like that. Left a message on his machine thanking him a bit tremulously, I’m so grateful.

He rang tonight and we spoke at last. He’d rung while I was at the pictures, I rang back, he was out, he rang back while I was in the bath… he wanted a few more tax details from me, to claim on the money he’s given me. He’d also said he wanted to ask my advice about something. It seems James Roose-Evans asked him to do the sound and music for an Irving celebration with Richard Pasco, Barbara Leigh-Hunt, Henry McGee etc. He wanted me to vet the letter of refusal he’d written. It was an excellent letter, making it quite clear he didn’t want to fill in the corners any more as ‘That nice sound boy.’ I told him such an evening would be suffocating to him – old theatre history, good heavens. He said he couldn’t commit himself to a date on March 22, if only because of Pete Sinfeld, ‘Who just had a no.1 record for nine weeks.’ ‘I want my own musical and I want it now.’

At the end, he said, quite timidly for him, ‘Like the TV then?’ ‘I’d bought a Sony when the little one broke down, and when you said you needed one. I thought what the hell.’ He’s got Teletext, ‘I haven’t.’ ‘It’s £40 more.’ I said I wouldn’t thank him for it, as the text stays on the screen about five minutes after I’ve read it.

The film I went to was The Shawshank Redemption. I think it’s about the best prison-film I’ve seen – because it gets over the utter pointlessness of imprisonment. Tim Robins was quite excellent, especially at the beginning, when he snuffed out his very considerable charm, to convey someone utterly crushed. That was at once convincing and gave him a long way to go to the triumphant end of the film. I was moved to tears two or three times, amused much and held all through. Good. T.R. has, I now see, something of the secret of Gary Cooper, incl. the almost deformedly long legs.

Tuesday March 14 1995

Bad night. Soup and toast at 2 a.m.

This a.m. quite a few footballers arrested. Ha ha. How D. has been confirmed in her idle judgment thirty years ago. ‘If you treat football as a religion, it will collapse under your weight.’ Delivered as an idle aside. This time it is a major footballer arrested in major disgrace – for losing matches on purpose for gambling.

The new house down the road has been broken into before it’s been occupied. They broke open the patio doors – a two-inch slice of the wood spilt off from top to bottom, leaving a gap, - and stole the new cooker, but left the burners. To my surprise, the door, tho’ boarded up with a couple of posts across it, is still unrepaired four or five days later, imagine being shown round it in its present state. If I were the estate-agent, I would have it repaired the first second so as few passersby, let alone prospective buyers, as possible would see it.

This evening rang John Morey’s sister, as hers is the only number I have. She was very bright and unflurried. ‘I’ll deal with it. I have got a number for him.’ But she didn’t give it to me. She seemed to take it quite granted, which is depressing really! In dressing-gown all day.

Wednesday March 15 1995

Rang Tim and had a feel of his parent’s house-hunting. They’re getting a bit old for their present place, which is two or three acres. No work.

Slept till nine, thank goodness, and this restored the status quo. Read Hazel’s novel, or rather the last few chapters. A good twist at the end, that I didn’t foresee.

In the p.m. to see La Reine Margot which has come to the Curzon, Phoenix, a little cinema I like. I enjoyed the film up to a point. Too long and a bit slow. I also have to say that even French historical films are becoming too sloppy in dress and deportment. Fewer and fewer hats, and really, every man, servant, peasant, courtier, merchant and nobleman, didn’t have his doublet open to the waist all the time. I like Isabelle Adjani – some people think her inexpressive but that mask is incomparable and says much to me.

An extremely personably young man opposite her, Vincent Perez, whom I’ve never seen or heard of before, where has he been?

R. rang tonight to say he’d seen the Shawshank Redemption. His friend, Tim, knows the manager of the Odeon, Leicester Sq., and they got in free, in the front row dress circle. I’m glad to say he fully shared my good opinion of the film. Still trying to wash up and clean and put the advert in Loot.

Thursday March 16 1995

Rang Janet to say I wouldn’t go to the shorts programmes, despite the free food and booze, Partly that I need my hair cut and can’t afford it, and partly that if I go and eat, I have to talk to all those awful people, widows of producers, etc. Another white lie, pretended I had a tummy upset. Ah well.

K. rang briefly to say that the IT details were what he wanted. He sounded rather – what? – stressed? emotional? drunk? None of these, but when I said, ‘Let’s go to the pictures together, we haven’t done that for ages.’ He said ‘That would be lovely’ with a more uncontrolled warmth than is usual with him. Interesting.

R. rang up to propose himself for dinner on Tuesday. Hm. Not that I don’t want to see him, but I have to think of the expense. Loathsome.

On The Late Show, I was amazed to find all three critics praising Little Women to the skies. Happily Mark Lawson, the chairman, articulated my view. The woman, whom I didn’t know, said ‘We were as moved and stirred as by Tarantino, but by a family picture.’ Fancy.

Then they praised S’s book in almost embarrassing terms. After all, ‘Great’ is hardly a word one could apply to any biography. Still, it’s good to be praised, and will increase sales – I suppose.

Friday March 17 1995

Paul R. rang and we arranged dinner at Nada’s for next Friday. So sweet, ‘Get to Finsbury Park station and get a cab, I’ll pay, and we’ll send you home in a cab.’

In the p.m. to see new film ‘Priest’ – oh dear. I’ll just describe the end. After the gay priest has been in court for getting up to it in a car, he comes back to his clergy house, intending to give up priesthood. ‘No.’ says the older priest ‘we’ll celebrate Mass together.’ The congregation differ about g. priest reappearance, and after an acrimonious argument, half of them leave, and even the half that stays, line up and take Mass from the senior priest. Except for the 14 year old girl the g. priest had not been able to save from sexual abuse by her father. They collapse in each other’s arms, in bitter tears, what time the soundtrack plays ‘When you walk alone’. Really. That song is so threadbare it cannot be used as an illustration of anything. Linus Roache can act a bit and is sort of nice-looking, but really he’s very ordinary. It was directed by Antonia Bird, for whom I worked some time ago. Oh dear.

K. rang about the sale of Free As Air. Would I ring Felix? He needs the money.

Saturday March 18 1995

That silly bitch Maureen O’Sullivan, described Tarzan as ‘A man who’s never seen a woman – a fairly tale.’

I have no idea whether I described our only meeting before. In those happy days I certainly didn’t write every day, so I’ll go through it now. I was working on a Joe Losey film, Secret Ceremony, in the ‘60s. It starred Elizabeth Taylor and Mia Farrow and Maureen O’Sullivan’s daughter. One afternoon Mia F. was nowhere to be found. The third or fourth assistant was sent to find her, and eventually on a very hot day in June, found her, rather worse for wear, in the newly opened Bunny Club in Park Lane. Later we had trouble with E. Taylor. She was made up in her suite at the Dorchester and had it in her contract that she need never be on set before 10.30. So sensible, because nothing happens till then. Her trailer was the longest I’ve ever seen, with, of course, a fully-stocked bar. Every day, any bottle that had been opened, even for one drink, was replaced. We were filming in a real R. Catholic church, whose real services had been really suspended. I was the priest, doing a christening, hearing E. Taylor’s confession, and burying her daughter – running a priest’s gamut. (If I’d really heard E.T.’s real confession, I’d probably be still at it.) Suddenly Robert Kennedy was shot, and E.T. didn’t appear until five o’clock when she consented to do a long-shot, her eyes swollen with weeping. Then he died and the next day she didn’t come out of the Dorchester at all. We were all made up and dressed. There I was as a catholic priest, sitting in the local pub, and Maureen O’Sullivan, a faithful Catholic, sat beside me and chatted . Mia F, at the bar three or four sheets under, and stale from her stoned Bunny Club trip, was also in the middle of an acrimonious divorce from fiftyish satyr Frank Sinatra. M.O’S watched her fondly, turned to me and said, ‘My little Mia is so unspoiled.’

Sunday March 19 1995

Two radiant notices for S’s book, in The Observer and The Independent. Quentin Curtis kept taking back his favorable remarks, of which there are many, in a grudging way, as if he couldn’t deny the book’s success but would like to have done if he could. He did say O.W. was an idol of his and he resisted, but recognised, S’s fairly harsh criticisms. I would also guess that he’s had an ambition to write a book about Wells himself.

When Hazel rang as usual, she’d had a letter from Violet Powell describing A.P’s 89th b’day – or was it 90th? With Tristram bring the food over from the stables – it’s always Tristram who seems to do the cooking, not Virginia – and it seems AP’s short-term memory is going so rapidly that she has to keep telling him that the diaries had been published and that the notices had been good. This confirms for me that V.P. put the diaries out, which accounts for the certain mistakes, and the poor index, and so on. I do like these little reports of one of my favorite writers.

Monday March 20 1995

Rang Felix about Free As Air. Naturally an awkward talk. It seems that the possible sale was triggered by the CD of Salad Days after the radio. Its seems that whoever-it-was thought of a CD, of Free As Air, but in the end made one of what Felix called ‘That thing of Vivian Ellis’, ‘Mr. Cinders’, I expect. In another hundred years, S.D. and Mr. C will be the same period, probably sooner with the rapid decaying historical sense. So the whole thing is now ‘water under the bridge.’ I rang K to tell him. I’m afraid he was probably disappointed, tho’ he was in the middle of a session. I am very worried about my debts to him, and will have to think something radical.

Frightening thing in Japan – someone put canisters of hideous nerve gas in Tokyo’s tube at sixteen stations, a gas that can kill from a pin prick. I don’t quite understand in that case, why it only seems to have killed a dozen or so, tho’ 3000are ill. I supposed it’s the usual sensationalist journalism, inaccurate as ever. But of course, it’s wonderful that there are so few deaths from such an utterly wanton act. And people still respect science and scientists. Its seems this particular gas can be made with no rare conponents by any competent chemist!

That ridiculous but harmful organisation, Outrage, has started to expose politicians. I have despised them, but all of a sudden I see the point, when it’s Lilley Portillo.

I had another bad night. Woke and woke, and eventually had a bacon and egg sandwich at 3.0, even then had to read myself to sleep by about 5.30. Up late and had no lunch. I worry so much about his money.

Tuesday March 21 1995

The first day of spring lived up to it, sunny and warm and the different light. Leaves are starting.

I have been moved by the Queen’s visit to S. Africa. Her integrity receives its reward at such moments.

All day, more or less, preparing for R’s dinner, after another bad night. Tesco had no guinea- fowl for the first time for weeks just as I wanted one. Settled for a chicken, wild mushroom soup, and apple and blackberry pie. Posted the Little Women throwaway, quite a large – A4 size – card, with the whole cast, and a synopses and some pictures – and forgot to put any stamps on.

I went out with two carrier bags of papers and one of bottles to put in the recycling bins, and I was so anxious to get rid of some of what I was carrying that, when I saw the post-office van by the pillar-box, I rushed over and put the envelope in his bag.

R. arrived just as I was putting my shoes and socks on. He’d brought, as I had asked, some frogspawn. He’d found it quite difficult to pare off some to put in the jar,- it was certainly a good jarful, out of his absurd shoe-box pool with nothing in it but dead leaves. No water plants, nothing. That, as he said, was the good news. The band news was that he’d brought no wine. That was fairly sensational for R. I was putting on my shoes at the time and looked up and said ‘Is it because you haven’t any money?’ and he said ‘Yes.’ Even more sensational. Later he confirmed what K. had said about him wanting to leave London. He’s sick of having no money and no real work, and feels he’s too old to live like this anymore. No doubt Zoë leaving him and turning 30 has a good deal to do with it. His idea at the moment is to move to Cambridge, ‘Where accommodation is cheaper, and get some sort of regular job for reasonable money, and go on with my writing.’ Is accomo. cheaper in Cambridge? I would have thought the opposite, because demand for it must be more acute there and in Oxford than anywhere except London. I remember the landlord of the White Hart at Salisbury saying it was the wish of every hotelier to have a hotel at O. or C., because there was every possible reason for them to be permanently full. I am sad that he might be going – I shall miss his kindness and sunny nature, but I do see. He hasn’t done anything these last few years, really, mainly thro’ his own fault, I suppose, which doesn’t make life easier.

Very typical of R. that he agreed to do something about his decision at once, and then talked for some time about getting some tomato-plants. Imagine K. in the same position… which reminds me, another slightly degrading remark about K. Odd.

Wednesday March 22 1995

They put some wax dummies – these modern ones, very realistic, as a ‘nuclear family’ – on the parapet of Westminster city? hall, to measure pollution. The box in the father’s chest had some rolls of absorbent material, white with blue printing on. Some time later, we all expected them to be soiled, but they were jet black, no sign of the printing.

The nasty chain of butchers, Dewhurst, have gone bankrupt. I’m not surprised. They have very over bright neon lighting, in which the meat looks too raw, and whenever I’ve stuck my nose inside, it smells of disinfectant, so I’ve gone no further. The shops are clearly run without love.

Now Nigel Hawthrone has been outed and he and Trevor Bentham responded with a certain amount of dignity. I didn’t think they’d ever been in. I thought I’d write and support them in their dignity. Rang Janet to get the address and she choked me right off, saying they’d want to forget all about it. She was too short with me, not allowing for my judgment, and D’s connection with Trevor, but, after thinking it over, she’s right. It’s not as if it was a death…sent her a b’day card and said so.

Thursday March 23 1995

Hazel rang to say that the postman brought the envelope for nothing! They get their letters at 7.45 just as I do – an isolated house in a valley in the Quantocks.

She rang a while later to say that Tom had had a card from S. to say he’d do ‘anything of Tom’s, any time, anywhere, if I’m free.’ Hazel suggested I do the radio adaptation of Flying Dutchman with Tom, as he’d feel more comfortable. News to me that he liked me at all, let alone wanted to work with me.

Somebody rang up at last in answer to my advert. Rather brisk, fluent but I think, foreign, and, judging by the name, Kwade, probably black.

I switch between TV progs. to go from bit to bit. Hoping to find a tiny echo of acting and writing pressure of my youth.

Friday March 24 1995

Forgot to say that Mr. Kwade said it was down as Baron’s Court in Loot. Really, a paper which is nothing but adverts might be expected to get them right.

Oh, as I looked out last night 1.15 a.m. – no, wed-night – two cyclists stole ‘the Man Who Plays With Cars’ illegal parking cones and carried them off… HA!

Did a bit of preparation for Mr. Kwade, tho’ not a week’s washing up. Rang R. and said I’d be at F. Park at 7.45, this was the first time I’ve been met at a tube station, with a car, for months, if not years!! So I need hardly say that, also for the first time for ages, I got to the station at five to seven, and waited quarter of an hour for a train instead of two minutes. Happily, because I had allowed, I was only three or four minutes late and there was dear faithful R. with his glamorous car that is so difficult for me to get into. And out of. He drove round and about in that way that motorists do, saying that’s where I used to live, and that’s where Natasha lives, and I couldn’t actually tell whether we needn’t be there at all. However, we were soon in Stapleton Hall Rd, one of those tiresome North London roads, curving round hills, so you don’t know where you are. Not to mention that at one point it turned at completely right angles on itself, and was still called S H Rd. Now if I were whoever names roads I would regard a right angle as a reason for a new name.

However, we got there, in a nice quiet part of the road. Paul came running down and took me up three flights to some immaculate stairs, into a charming little flat, showing no signs of conversion. A fair-sized sitting room, with the kitchen off it with a proper door to close. The bedroom, just big enough for the proper space around the big bed. And another room she uses as a study. She didn’t let it while she was in Glasgow, nor does she share it with the study as the other bedroom. The whole place is properly decorated, no makeshift curtains or furniture, a well-laid table with matching napkins and napkins rings. Altogether better than I expected from a young actress just beginning. She might have had help with the flat surely.

The food was delicious, too, tho’ as I found later, not terribly filling. Potatoes in a creamy sauce, with a cheese topping, strongly flavored with carroway, a side dish, hot, of bean spouts and peas, and another, cold, of tomato salad. This was followed by fruit-salad, with a caramel topping of sugar and very finely chopped orange-zest. Delicious. I had a most enjoyable evening and the dear things crowned it by driving me home, tho’ I talked too much.

Neither of them has any work.

Saturday March 25 1995

Managed to clean the worst of the kitchen-floor, and tidy up generally. Went to watch for Mr Kwade, as I like to get a look before, but he spiked my guns by coming up the other way, the length of St. D’s Rd. Slim, young, 22, he says – probably half-cast, negro hair, pale olive skin, but totally English otherwise, he’s easy to talk to, is starting a clothes shop. Helped by the Princes Trust. When he heard about the theatre and music, he told me he was brought up with Zoot Money’s daughter ‘Almost like my sister.’ He said two things that made me want him to take the room, ‘I’m avid reader’, and ‘I would almost never be here.’ But I’m afraid he won’t. Why should he?

Sunday March 26 1995

He didn’t. Ah well. Rang Tim and got Mark C. back for the weekend form Northampton where he’s rehearsing Time and Time Again, his first Ayckbourn. I was amused at his surprise at his merits. He tells me that his girl-friend, Cecilia, a designer, who has been working from necessity at Asprey’s for the last few months, is very bored, not only because she doesn’t approve of Asprey’s, but because there are only three or four customers a day. He told me again the story of an Arab buying three or four ostrich hand-bags at £100 odd each to give to his small children to play with. Tim was in the pub at twenty past three on a Sunday. I can’t get used to the new pub hours. Only the other day I saw a drunk staggering down King St. at half-past five and thought he was taking some time to sober up…

Ba New rang up to ask about B. Court evening. She didn’t seem to mind about my silence, and me chatting for some time, as always with Ba, between certain careful lines, that as with Hazel, I always hope I’m safely within. Their poor little prejudices are so difficult to anticipate sometimes. She told me a little more of her back trouble. She can’t lift anything, or cook, or get out, or drive. She is really short-backed, and not at all the sort for back trouble. Her speech seems a little slurred, and I wonder if there’s something else.

R. rang, and I didn’t quite know why, except to ask after my Paul-Nada evening. I felt I missed something tho’ I asked after his change of life, and he applied to a computer firm for a job.

Monday March 27 1995

I’m glad to get a figure. There are 700 murders a year in the United Kingdom. Not bad.

My knees seem to be getting stiffer after the two injuries, rather than better. This is in the last three or four weeks. Going down stairs is harder, and altogether more of an effort. I’m hoping that the warm weather will make a difference.

Got pension of £64. £25.81 went to the Alliance for monthly insurance premium, and £25 for the twice yearly Ground Rent. £14 for the week, and no lodger yet.

Woke at twenty to twelve,- inconvenient but, in my empty life, better than waking at twenty to four.

Tuesday March 28 1995

Woke at 9.20, my mind remembering I was lunching with John N. I opened the curtains to find a snowstorm. Ridiculous. It’s rather silly of nature to produce snow which has no chance of settling and disrupting all our lives and might just as well have fallen as rain. Got to the Coliseum, and John appeared more or less after the receptionist telephoned, from another bit of the building. Haven’t seen him since Christmas, and he’s even greyer. I can see he will become smaller and gently shrink, because that’s the way his considerable vitality works. Happily he has found a partner with much the same constitution. ‘How is Simon?’ ‘He’s very well. He’s got a terrible cold.’ I don’t think I shall particularly shrink or bloat. Just crash into an unpleasant reddish ruin.

He told me that business at the Coli. is excellent. Why? He doesn’t know – nobody knows. When we came out of the foyer, I asked why the interval for Madame B. was 40 minutes long. That is a long time but it seems, it is a very cumbersome set. As if that wasn’t enough, they’ve put back the longer last act, ‘That was cut originally, and is well over an hour of unrelieved gloom.’

Really how stupid people are now about ‘putting back’ cuts.

Later we talked about Joyce. She seems in a very bad way to me, - they’re broke, by their standards, which doesn’t seem to preclude her going to a psychotherapist, for some time at £100 a time, and then later, she found one ‘nearly as good, but only £50.’ At one point, poor John said ‘Not poor as you and I would understand poor.’ He still, of course, feels that delightful mattress of money which will protect him against a real emergency. Poor Joyce, what a dreadful upbringing by John’s very silly shallow mother. It seems she tried to commit suicide again. Hm, well, at any rate, she spent some time on the roof, attempting to commit suicide. I wonder how anyone knows. He never mentioned Jeremy. Did he plead with her on the roof?

And Joyce has such gifts of intelligence and perception that have gone almost completely to waste. Of course there’s bad blood there. Dianna’s three whales are still in bed ten? years later. ‘They should see a psychiatrist.’ ‘They are too ill to see a psychiatrist.’

This evening four or five possible lodgers rang. But impossible for one reason or another. The only possible one was an English student on Housing benefit, but impossible because so am I .

Wednesday March 29 1995

Hazel rang unexpectedly to suggest I go down and stay ‘for a week or so.’ To work with Tom on the radio. I went with it for the moment, as Hazel doesn’t like to be crossed. Of course, I should hate it, I don’t think I would sleep. I so rarely leave my shell these days, and then not enough drink… But quite apart from that, I couldn’t possibly leave the flat with a new lodger, or not for at least eight weeks. I was amused that Tom’s conveience came before mine, of course.

There was an extraordinary programme about a vet being ‘sensitive’ when killing pets. I have seldom seen such an exhibition of the grossest sentimentality. ‘The two Labradors are the centre of their lives, they come before the grandchildren,’ not said as a joke, far from it. Many scenes of sniveling tears from emotional cripples who put dogs before humans. ‘Utterly loyal.’ etc etc.

Now the death of a guide dog is quite another matter, and some emotion is respectable.

Thursday March 30 1995

To Selfridges to pay my account. It is now down below £100, and if I can manage four goes of £25, it will be gone. One less drain. Went up to the book dept. Surely the sales must have gone down since it moved from the first to the fourth floor. On the new biographies table, S’s book was by far the biggest pile, ‘Signed copies available.’

Rang Mary L. spoke of N. Ireland. ‘Darling, I’m weary of N. Ireland.’ On another occasion, she might equally have said, ‘So many people ignore these poor people.’ It seems fairly arbitrary, and of course has lost her all her friends. She has few antennae as to when it is important to protest. She always protests. When it will do harm to her cause.

K. rang after nearly three weeks. I am becoming reconciled to his complete concentration on his work, because when we do talk or meet, he gives his complete self in a way that few people do.

He’d just finished a sound recording with Simon from Music House, who it seems goes to a psychotherapist. But also there is one of those tanks where one lies in warm water, blood heat, in the dark, in limbo, for an hour. I’m fairly confident he’ll never have any but my psychotherapy, but he tried this. Well water… swimming… when he came out he said to Simon, he’d really liked it but said he kept looking at that little light. ‘You nerd, you turn it out.’ Of course, he hadn’t looked at the instructions, and missed the point of the whole thing! We mentioned the garden. ‘I’ll do it’. I said about the lodger, or rather no lodger. And the ground rent and Alliance payment taking £50 out of my pension. ‘Are you all right for money?’ when I owe him all that.

I’ve laughed aloud two or three times, over his leaving the light on. I’m laughing now.

Friday March 31 1995

Sharron was coming to dinner tonight. I felt a bit off colour this a.m. and did have a bit of squitters, two goes, and certainly felt tired and below par. However, I could have done it, but gave in and put her off. All day in my dressing gown, didn’t shave, bad nights lately.

And again. Bacon and egg sandwhich at 1.0 a.m. to try and sleep. Not good.

Saturday April 1 1995

Quite taken in by an attribution of pastel of W.G. Grace supposedly discovered in an Oval attic, to Vincent Van Gogh, who had lodgings in the area in the ‘80s and ‘90s. Not at all because I believed it, but because I could believe anything of most, art critics and connoisseurs (sic, sic) now.

I never came to the boat-race, but I remember George Painter saying to someone who told him Cambridge had won, ‘The proudest day of my life’. I have had thoughts of getting memories from him of his affair with D. but no. Cambridge won again, quite right. I went down to H’Smith at 5.15 and found the B.R. crowds still in charge, as it were, in the streets.

Even supermarkets show strange shortages. Why was there only gammon cacon today and no collar? Obviously collar is much cheaper. Notice of S’s book in Spectator by Gabriel Annan. A notice full of praise, but not very interesting praise, as she plainly knows and understands little of the performing arts. But really only to say that she is an academic.

What a poor little creature David Lean must have been, only interested in power. Once he was left to himself, what did he do? Bestsellers.

Sunday April 2 1995

Can’t believe that I haven’t recorded – why? – any reason? – a talk last week with a journalist writing a profile of S. for the S. Telegraph (I think it was because K. rang up that day, and put everything else out of my mind.)

She said S. had put her on to me to give some different perspective on him for the profile. It is so typical of him that he didn’t ring me to give me a briefing as to what I should or should not say. It is years since I spoke to a Journalist, and I was agreeably surprised to find her so responsive and charming with a delightful silvery laugh. Now I don’t think a nasty inaccurate journalist could have a laugh like that.

And so it proved. That interview that appeared today was the most like him of any I’ve read, and the most accurate! I got good billing with my name beginning the second paragraph. I’d quoted to her that p.c. he sent me, ‘Oh, I’m so silly – I forgot to have a mid-life crisis.’ And she hung the beginning on that.

When I went to buy a Telegraph I had to go to H’Smith. On the way back, I could go and get a baguette from the Café, and look at the dear butchers I’ve had to give up. They now sell fish, which I recommended they did oh – five? Years ago.

Hazel called as usual. She said Susan Raven threatened to come and stay with her schizophrenic son Adam. ‘He’s quite quiet at the moment.’ I said, ‘Say you’re ill.’ ‘I’ve done that last time.’ A programme about the Bronte’s confirmed anything one might think about the poor quality of the work apart from W. Heights and even that… the new photo of possibly Charlotte, is certainly of her, or Ethel M. Dell.

Dolly Parton, the ‘Country and Weston singer’, who has an extraordinarily large bust, was invited to press her hands into that procession of concrete signatures somewhere in Hollywood. Someone suggested she might more suitably memorialize her bust by pressing in into the concrete. ‘Ah couldn’t do that. A small child might fall in, and hurt himself.’ She can send herself up, rare in America.

Monday April 3 1995

I sometimes feel quite old. My knees are sometimes very stiff and painful. I find it harder to do the housework and shopping. So I’m glad nobody notices. I must seem quite capable still.

Tuesday April 4 1995

I was listening to an interview, while shaving, with a policeman, who claims clairvoyant powers, has published a book called Medium Cop. The interview was suddenly interrupted by the presenter announcing the death of Kenny Everett from AIDS. (Gracious, he might be the Queen or something.) This seemed a splendidly fresh opportunity for the medium to practice his art/craft/fraud, but he didn’t avail himself of it.

Sharron turned up with two more beautiful candles, some peanuts, a bottle of wine and a frame for the beautiful dusty blue starfish. She was looking well, and seems rather less tense about her work. She now claims to be no longer in love with K. That may be, but she still has to talk about him and I can see she resents it when I tell her something that he’s done or someone he’s met, or some job he’s doing, that she doesn’t now know about. She is still talking him down and it is difficult for me, because I can only let her go so far without protesting. I am thankful that she hasn’t gone that far – in fact, I think she senses the limit. Example. ‘I find him a bit pathetic. I think he’ll be a nasty old man at 50, going out with 21-year-olds.’ He smiled when I said that. ‘He talks to people at his work about sex and really bores them.’ ‘Why did he lie about Amsterdam? He can lie now, tho’ he still goes red.’ She is training herself to think little of him I suppose.

She said she really needs a break. She’s off this w/e with her gay friend from the shop and his boyfriend, to N. Devon to that nice farm? where they went two years ago. Then the next w/e she goes to Languedoc for a fortnight with that man (another Simon) she had a little fling with, and is ‘sort of seeing’ now. ‘He has a house there, he’s still doing it up, and I’ll help. It’s costing me the fare more or less. A scots friend of him, Terry, is going too.’

Later we had talk of the Authorized Version of the Bible, of which she’d never heard. She argued in a very muddled way so that I literally couldn’t tell whether she supported more literal translations or not. Probably she was bored by the whole subject. But I was amused at my reaction when she said confidently that I was entirely irreligious. I nearly protested.

Wednesday April 5 1995

Mercifully quiet day.

K rang to say what about tomorrow night. He didn’t want to deprive me of the film. Also said how lovely, to see my name in the interview. Rang back, and said I couldn’t afford to have him here. He said no it was always come here. Lovely.

Thursday April 6 1995 Friday April 7 1995

Darling D. has been dead eighteen years. Horrible thought.

Without him it would be even more horrible. Another lovely evening, Chicken, or rather, I suppose, Pollo Italienne. Chianti.

We first talked about Sharron, and I think I said one or two wise things. The only thing that got him on the raw was her saying that he could lie now. He coloured and said that he ‘lied’ about Amsterdam not to upset her. I think that it’s what I dislike about those who denigrate him – he is absolutely transparently sincere. To a fault!

He told me, when I asked, that the break-up was on his part, mainly because she was becoming too dependent on him, not able to be independent enough, being swamped. I think he’s right but he also said he had to think, ‘what am I giving up, this woman who would go along with me, and we would be running about crazily for fun at 70.’

I couldn’t tell many people that he split them up for her good, because they wouldn’t believe him. I have never known him say anything he did not mean. Of course I don’t mean he has never been wrong!

He told me about a sound engineer he’d been working with, from the Music House? Simon Smart, another Simon, oh god, parents killed in a plane crash at Southport or Southampton! When he was four. He has had eight years of psychotherapy… ‘He’s just like me, in so many ways, to look at, same age, we work well together.’ They have put together a good wodge of sound effects of a pretty classy standard. He played me about a dozen or fifteen. Thirty second ‘effects’. I was impressed. They were more complex and interesting than such tracks generally are, but also completely accessible, in a way that such tracks would not have been when K. was twenty-two.

‘Just like me in many ways’ – except that he’s been going to a pycho.th. for eight years, and is mad about – motor racing. Magazine lying about in the studio. I hope he’s really all right, K. is such a poor judge of character!

Two possible v. profitable things. The Price Is Right!! and Richard and Judy’s new Keep healthy programme!!!!

Later I said about his abilities. ‘I’d better justify myself soon.’

Saturday April 8 1995

Because the water-heater in my b. room has conked out for the moment, I bent down to pick up the kettle, and cut my head quite badly on the edge of the heater. Happily I was only in my pajama trousers, because within seconds blood was dripping off both sides of my jaw. Quite tricky for a bit because I couldn’t see the ‘wound’ well enough to stop the bleeding. I pressed a cold flannel on it, went and got some cotton wool – and some kitchen paper on top. I went round for a bit looking like Robert Byron giving a bad imitation of Queen Victoria. Later, wondering how to get my wound under a publicly acceptable dressing, I went out to feed the fish, and a thorn tore off the kitchen-paper, and I just managed to get a big dressing on it. Tho’ I did go out to shop with my Queen Vic impersonation under my cap. On a very warm day.

Thinking of Shaw, ‘by the end of the century I will be an enduring classic or nothing.’ Raquel Welch was interviewed about The Millionairess. ‘We might shine up this strange little play…’ ‘But the critics will cut me up, otherwise you’d have Madonna doing the classics in your West End.’ ‘Duncan Weldon, my producer…’ ‘I’m a star, because my father was Spanish…’

How Shaw would love it, and a play of his late middle age sixty years later. And the poor bitch has Patrick Ryecart opp. Her.

Forgot to say on Friday took rehabilitated Jasmine back to Janet, and after to new film Dumb And Dumber. Rather feeble and with far too few gags, unlike Airplane etc. to whose fans it had been recommended. Jim Carrey is gifted, but betrays the gifts by occasional mugging, and underlines his gifts by moments of extraordinary precision and intensity.

Janet gave me more London Review of Books. Most interesting article on Stallworthy’s Louis MacNiece. How interested D. would be that her loved prof. Dodds was a father figure to L.M. might have done the biography if he’d lived long enough. I wish I could talk to her about it.

I hope I live long enough to solve a few questions.

Hazel rang and I told her about Flying Dutch, that I’d roughed out where the episodes should end.

Monday April 10 1995

Letter, with four first class stamps on, arrived clearly addressed here, to a doctor down the road at the Charing X pharmacology Dept. in the school. Rang the switchboard, was put thro’ to the p. dept. – the ‘phone rang twenty or so times. Rang the p. dept direct. Same result.

Rang the Coliseum to wish John N. a happy B’day for twenty rings and so left the message at home. I’m glad I don’t want pharmacology at C.X. or vital message at the Coli.

Saw that nice Python man interview, during which he said that the Python team, during their filming the series, stayed at a hotel in Torquay, that gave John Cleese the idea for Fawlty Towers. He said it was an hotel called Uplands. Do you know, I am almost sure that was one of Daddy’s and Mummy’s friends. Ha.

V. funny but rather sad letter from US from S. who is doing Ace Ventura. Obviously, as usual, he thinks he’s told me. Well, I’m pleased from every point of view, especially that he isn’t, I suppose doing the Criterion season. (It’s so typical of all those dreary ‘60s playwrights that I can’t remember his name again.) And, of course, he’ll make a bit of money. Jim Carrey said ‘You must be playing Simon Callow’, the script having got it wrong. Role: Simon Callow. Actor: Vincent Cadby. No one knows who he is, and of course they’ll be all over him when the Welles is published. Oh, aren’t Americans hell? The really dull philistinism. S. said characteristically ‘Vincent Cadby can play Simon Callow – it’s a thankless part.’

I saw an item on the news of women policemen being made up as old ladies to attract muggers to be arrested. In Handsworth Rd, Birmingham. D’s birth place, where she dreamt that the German Troops were at the end of the road. But there was no sort of threat when the dream was over. I think the vast majority of any generation would say that same.

Tuesday April 11 1995

I can’t remember exactly when he said ‘You’re always the same.’ The other night, but he meant it as a very real compliment. He rang at 12.30 because he’d had to choke me off yesterday. We talked of Robin saying nothing to me of Cambridge, and not ringing K although Thursday was supposed to be the deadline. Odd boy, R. He (K) said we’d see one another over Easter. ‘ I may start on the rubbish in the garden. There’s a lot of good wood there I must keep. But the rest - I think I’ll go to a boot sale.’ People will buy anything, someone told him - they sold old tights at 10p a pair, and other incredible things. I said I’d like to come, too, and get a Picasso for 10p. With my eye, I might find something, and sell something too. He seemed v. pleased that I might come, too. Good. I love to chat to him and he listens so patiently. Read him S’s letter.

I have never really seen the point of Jean Renoir’s greatness as a director, Partic De Campagne is charming, Le Regle Du Jeu is a bore.

Film location dream. Going to nice place for lunch and counting up money, and telling John Baddeley! I couldn’t afford it, and tuning back. Dreary realism.

Wednesday April 12 1995

Finished and sent off to Tom H the rough shape of the Flying Dutch script. I don’t really know how much or how little he wants me to do. I offered to do exactly as much as he wants.

Mary Llewellyn accounts of her love for the sun and Africa and her hatred of English weather, about which she is very foolish and affected by telling me that she thinks she has a touch of the tar-brush thro’ the slave-trade in Bristol. A sixteenth she imagines. Well! Did D know? I don’t think she can have done, as I remember her saying how odd it was of God to make someone a native of a country whose weather gives one bronchitis every winter. I don’t believe the tar- brush really, - any more than most of the time either of us believed in the bronchitis.

Some American woman on a programme about recent bereavement – only Americans…- said, ‘My mother dying, to me, was as if this county had lost the Statue of Liberty.’

S. rang and said lunch tomorrow, one o’clock at where? 2, Brydges Place. Lovely.

Janet rang to say yes to Muriel’s wedding, and dinner after. Also lovely, tho’ the point where two such jaunts in a day are possibly tiring. Not only that, but she wants to come to lunch, - on Saturday, and offered a selection of Academy videos, one of which we could watch. One of the offers was Legends of The Fall. The new Brad Pitt. No Argument.

Ran out of whisky and walked down to the Fulham Park Rd. to an office license run by a nice Pakistani man who has his sweet family round behind the counter, his wife and three children under ten. He has a permanent three-day stubble, but the shop is well run, I can go in an old ragged mack and my garden shoes, and he would never notice, and Teacher’s is £9.99, nearly £2 cheaper than the supermarkets. Anyone seeing me would think I’m a tramp, and walking down there, along that ugly busy road past the hospital and back, I seem to rather like that, I don’t know why I think it’s the same impulse that makes me feel pleasure when I got to the gents at the pictures, and think no-one knows where I am. I hasten to say it’s not the gents that does it but that is the moment I’m free to think.

Wretched Rupert Murdoch is buying up the equally wretched rugby league. Nevertheless, I am glad that I have lived long enough to have seen people who are only interested in money, like Murdoch, turn into poor little dried-up prunes from lack of humanity.

Oh, K. said he watched ‘Making Mr. Right’ because of writing the tune for the Real Woman series, and enjoyed it. ‘I remember you told me to see it after you saw it originally.’ That must be seven years ago.

Thursday April 13 1995

It’s interesting these days, that age and tiredness and stiffness make me at once want distraction and social life and then feel relief when an engagement is cancelled. So I faced today with some misgiving, but it went well.

I got to 2, Brydges Place at almost exactly one o’clock. I pressed the bell ‘club’ and a voice said with a slight sense of anticlimax, ‘The door is on the latch.’ After all tuning off busy St. Martin’s lane, into that shoulder-wide urine scented alleyway by the side of the Coliseum, you expect something, or a non-londoner would.

Inside the door a perfectly ordinary staircase like mine, it was obviously just a house, rather unexpectedly in that position. At the top of the stairs, three rooms, at the front, back and side. In the front room a party of four, two couples, a couple of tables, empty, in the back room, which had a side view of Trafalgar Sq., a fire-place, and a big sofa. S, was stuck in traffic, so I ordered a Martini and settled down to the Standard in great comfort on a sofa, a little occasional table and all. There were bookshelves, a bit of dust, just like a real room. The owner came and talked, - my heart momentarily sank, tho’ I knew he must in a club – but he exchanged the right four or five sentences and left me. I couldn’t tell what his accent was – no wonder, when S. came, he told me he was Peruvian. It seem there was a gay club there originally, and S. went there when it was on its last legs and was one of the founder members as it is now, still run by a gay couple. Three worse fates for a club.

S. had been in a mini-cab driven by a creature who didn’t even know where Wardour St. was, let alone the ways to it. We settled down in a room up-stairs at a table for six, plenty of room to push dishes away – oh, I do love that – and never saw anyone else except the dear waiter until we left. He had charred breast of chicken, which looked roast to me, but no doubt good, I had ‘filo-wrapped’ wild mushrooms and a little salad, and then salmon fishcakes. Neither was anything extra, and the fishcakes batter was too solid and tasteless, and the vegetables unfashionably underdone, to deprive them of much of their taste. However the coffee and the wine were good, and anyway I didn’t care.

So off we went on that dizzying ride which is ‘Simon-telling-what-he’s-going-to-do-next.’ The main thing lately has been a Snoo Wilson play off Broadway, not off B’wy, Broadway. It’s called HRH, and is a two-hander for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. It seems Snoo was determined to write a more accessible play – fancy – even commercial – help, - and went so far in that direction that it was accepted by B’way, and S. had to ask to have a little more obscurity put back. God knows what it’s actually like. The producer is a large South African millionaire called something, S. has been over there, overseeing approaches to various stars, the Windsors are, it seems, still big business in the states because people there have no apprehension of any of the real issues or emotions involved. They first approached Angelica Huston, and she confirmed my opinion of her intelligence by saying she was interested in the play – I wonder – but she had only been on stage once, twenty years ago, and even then, in the chorus. She didn’t think that she had the technique or the courage to tackle a two-hander. Well, indeed, is she audiable in a theater? She doesn’t know. I think Glean Close was mentioned, and now they’re trying with Faye Dunaway. Oddly I forget anyone mentioned for Edward. And S. doesn’t think it will actually ever come off. And the Peter Barns season (sic) at the Criterion, might be next February, ‘But probably not.’

The Carmen J. tour is going around Britain again. I asked how it went in Japan. ‘When we got to Osaka, which had been damaged itself in the earthquake, they said the theatre was booked out for the three? weeks, but that a third of the seats had been booked in Kobe, so we’d be rather empty. But they came struggling out of the ruins clutching their tickets, we were full, and they struggled back in again.’ He reiterated yet again how weird, how different the Japanese are.

We talked of the interviews. He told me Chris’s parents had been furious at the mention of them being a couple. It’s the mention that’s the difficulty. His mother rang up and said nastily, ‘I don’t care what you do, but don’t let it get into the papers.’ Especially the Telegraph. They might find their neighbors aren’t as censorious as they think. S’s fame might help more than they know. !

Oh, S told me definitively, that Geraldine Fitzgerald had told him definitively that Michael Lindsay-Hogg was not Orson’s son. Of course there were reasons for the rumour, Michael’s black hair, small nose, very heavy thighs, bottom, and tendency to fat. I think he did not dislike the rumour, and certainly did actively discourage it when we knew him. We both worked with him, D. especially liked his confidence, another Orsonian trait.’ The first note he gave her ‘Would you like to move down left? – or not?’ in a slow U.S. accent. He and his then partner, Jean Marsh, came to dinner a few times, with some pleasure on, I hope, both sides.

Most clinchingly G. Fitzg. showed him a portrait of Sir? Lindsay–Hogg, the image of Michael, and said finally, that she couldn’t possibly have had an affair with O.W. ‘as his soft white flesh was repulsive.’

His main news was that he’s been offered a production by the RSC. I was annoyed to hear they sent a car to take him to Stratford and back home. Such extravagance revolts me, just as I am sure backstage at Stratford would revolt with every one of the old jobs now being done with twenty people instead of one. And with what results! Of course I didn’t express this to S. I expect he had a lovely time in the car with his mobile ‘phone. To be fair, he did say he thought of 27 more possible productions, besides the three they’d offered him to choose from. The three were Widower’s Houses, A Patriot For Me, ‘and I don’t think even you know this one, ‘The Great Magoo’ by Ben Hecht and A.N. other.’ I had just heard of it, and thought it a very typical choice, a play that didn’t go originally in the ‘30s.

I was again much amused internally, at S. saying what a wonderful play ‘Widowers houses’ is, when I think how he dismissed Shaw in his entirety when I first knew him. But it doesn’t do to confront the young with their early mistakes. And S., tho’ 45, is still quite young in aspects.

‘A Patriot For Me’ I thought very cumbersome at the time, a lot of time and trouble – and actors – all swirling round a shock moment that doesn’t shock.

However, in the end, he’s doing something quite else. He suddenly thought of doing Les Enfants du Paredis on stage. Only the RSC or the National could attempt such a thing, of course I see its attraction for S. as a sweeping romantic epic, but I cannot say it interested me much. I think the film has a unique ‘feel’, and it is pointless to try to capture it on stage. However, I am much pleased that S. has such a chance.

On the way out of the restaurant, S. said casually, ‘Then there are the three one-actors I’m doing for the Broomhill Festival at Tunbridge Wells, Gianni Scahicci etc. Il Trittico, Puccini.’ No, he hadn’t told me, so like him. We had, by the way, had good talk about the A. Powell. He’s only doing the first three, because they’ve decided they want the narrator’s voice to age. Odd. S. doesn’t sound specially young.

Came home and rested as much as I could, and off to the film Muriel’s Wedding. I enjoyed it very much, tho’ not without its faults. I can’t see why some critics have been so rude. I thought at one point I’d be late as the tube was so full of all those awful people who turn out at Bank Holidays, and tourists. Both sorts stand about in the entrances to the platforms, and no one can get in or out. Oh the stupidity! More stupidity in Janet Brown, - I’m afraid that’s what it is, she’s dim. She doesn’t help herself by not listening either.

Had a particularly delicious grilled trout. Suddenly felt I couldn’t go back in J.B’s car, and made the excuses that J. was tired and I took them out of the way. It was twenty to twelve, and the streets were full of people living it up before the holiday. I hoped the tube wouldn’t be wild, quiet an anti-climax alone in the carriage all the way home.

Friday April 14 1995

John G’s b’day. He’s recorded the Authorized Version of the Easter Story over the holidays. 91. Wonderful.

Saturday April 15 1995

Rang K. and found he was ill, a nasty thick cold. Just at the stage of feeling his head was twice the size. He’s not working….

Will go over to cast my eye over him and pick up the half dozen eggs Sharron brought back from Devon, ‘There are only three now…’

Sunday April 16 1995

Hazel rang to say that Tom had been impressed by the professionalism. Hm. She has to go to Oxford next weekend to some Pym gathering. They have a new Audi and will only have had one day driving it before driving it to O. That gave me a glimpse of how much money they have, as there are only ten of this model being delivered to the U.K. I suppose it must be £20 or £30,000, so she has no idea how poor I am.

She suddenly burst out and said how sick she was of ‘serving’ Pym. ‘I couldn’t say it to anyone but you, but I feel I’ve done my duty by Barbara with the Diary and the biography and all the editing, but Hilary loves the reflected glory and has to have me along as a sort of lady-in- waiting.’

I must say it is tiresome to be forced to bask in reflected glory. How amused B. Pym would be, but of course, Hilary’s absurdities would be obviously nothing new to her. There Hilary is in most of the novels, and I suppose has never really noticed.

Tom H. rang at about seven, and we talked of my rough synopsis. I realized all over again how touchy he is, and will probably require unadulterated praise at first, at any rate. He has decided that the mention of Wagner must be cut out, and wants to substitute S.T. Coleridge and The Ancient Mariner instead. He rang back later, after saying he was giving to write four or five pages. He read out what turned out to be mercifully only four or five paras. I do hate having things read aloud to me if they’re not dialogue – the only writing that can be judged thus.

Hazel never mentioned the tape of Revelations. Ah well.

But the main event of the day was going over to K’s to see how his cold was and to get Sharron’s eggs. Thank goodness it was just a bad cold, not one of his ague-like attacks. But of course a bad cold has a bad effect on those ears. He gave me the egg-box, and said ‘You must open it.’ In it were eggs with smoother more pleasing shells than most Easter eggs. We talked of money, of course, he wants some, and I feel terrible. The interest rates are up three times, the mortgage is up to £900 a month. His PR cheque has come and is £5000 for the six months to Dec. Rather interesting, the majority of his money was not Pedigree Chum – which will loom large in the October cheque – but from the Manchester Olympic music now in Sydney! I said I felt I ought to sell the flat, but he said no, no. I feel guilty about still having drink, but that is all I still have of my former life! He doesn’t push me at all. If only I could leave him Bournemouth.

We had a good little talk about the garden. The creature whose house backs on to his, is going to re-build the dividing fence. For some reason, the materials are being brought tho’ K’s. Why?

He has started to sort the huge mound of detritus from the re-building. He said there was a lot of wood, and there is. So we’ll do the raised border after that.

He gave me the usual hug and I hope I’ve caught his cold.

The tube was pretty empty. If only we could get rid of the businessmen…

Monday April 19 1995 Tuesday April 20 1995

Hazel did ring yesterday, to say about Revelations. Happily she relished it exceedingly. I had started wondering whether there was a bit of ‘rudeness’ somewhere that she would ‘mind’, that I’d forgotten about, or never noticed. I think she also rang to find out how Tom had fared with me, and to warn me obliquely how sensitive he is. It seems she was cool about Coleridge, he was dismissive, and rang back later to say ‘Angus likes it.’ Oh dear.

She began by asking ‘How is Kevin?’ Now that was polite and kind, but also betrayed that extraordinary interest in illness that so many people have. It’s going cold again, I don’t know whether to go on feeding the fish or not.

How repellent Americans are! A young girl saying ‘This was the crowd I wanted to get into.’ Imagine wanting to get into a crowd.

Rang John N. at office, found he was at home with a cold. Oh, their colds.

Two letters. The first, addressed to Miss Niemingen, and rejected by upstairs as well. It was from London Underground, and looked like a circular to me. I opened it and found it was an offer of cut-price novels to Gold Card users. Tie-up: most of our customers find a book the best way to pass the time, and it’s Penguin’s 60th. Can’t find the name in the ‘phone book. Tore it up in rage at the stupid materialism.

The other letter was lying in the area, as if escaped from the dustbin, wet and dirty. A letter from the DSS, to a Miss Sweeny, an address in Southall, sent from Ealing district office, whose address is Glasgow. How mysterious modern life is.

Really, Americans have emotional diarrhea, - they are so uncontrolled, with predictable results.

Wednesday April 19 1995

Strange I should write that just as a really big bomb went off in Oklahoma. Oklahoma!! Middle America. Of course I don’t want any bombs anywhere, but I have to say that Americans invite antagonism. Their ignorance and crudeness and shallowness – oh dear.

But I feel for those poor injured people and the beginning of the destruction of America’s fatal infantilism.

A new butcher has opened in the market. What a treat! I can go there and start afresh. I had to stop going to the expensive one at the corner, because they had the cheek to comment on how much less meat I was buying. This new one looks good and big, and a proper butcher, not a meat stall.

I saw an American on the news saying ‘This is America. It shouldn’t happen here.’ And they heave no idea how repellent such arrogant insularity seems to the rest of us.

Thursday April 20 1995

The national Lottery rolls on triumphantly the – at this point I could not remember the word for jackpot. Senile decay? I wrote down, ‘Balls-out’, ‘Back-drop’, ‘pay-out’, ‘black-spot’, to try and spring my memory.

Well, the jackpot is usually at least £8 million, sometimes a good deal more. Imagine the number of people who contribute against such odds. Well, I’m as usual the odds man out.

America has offered £2 million for information about the bomber. Oh dear, naked power, throwing money at everything. Not realising that’s part of the cause of it all.

Dream this a.m. Big Hotel film creation dream again, wandered off to a tract of open land. Found unlocked cupboard full of uninter. books, and was just deciding to steal one, when the vicar came along showed me the ruins of the vast church. Left my bag in the grass and never found it. As usual, staggeringly bland and uninteresting, because so immediately analysable and shallow.

Roy rang! to ask me out to dinner tomorrow night. Marian has some ‘book meeting.’ The River Café. Glorious.

Friday April 21 1995

They called for me at 8.30. A comic turn. They rang my bell, of course, but as the people – upstairs visitors usually ring it, too, down came the long tall thin streak of nothing, saying to Roy, ‘Are you my mini cab?’ Seemed a bit miffed it wasn’t. Serve him and friends right. Roy has shaved his head again, hideous. You don’t have youthful hair long, and his is jet-black and handsomely wavy. Ah well.

Marian could come as well, because he couldn’t get a table till 9.15, only ringing the night before. It’s in Rainville Road, more or less on the river, in what I take to be an old warehouse. What would our fashionable restaurants do without old warehouses?

At the gates a young man in a uniform cap, over coat and gaitors, - and a pony-tail. He took the keys of the car, parked it and produced it at the end of the evening. I followed them in hoping Roy wouldn’t betray that condescension about K that I so hate.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 133

April 21 1995 (cont) - June 2 1995.

Friday April 21 1995

It was a long room about four tables wide, with a long stainless steel bar and kitchen? all down the side opposite the door. I didn’t look closely – I don’t like seeing my food cooked. The walls were plain and pale cream, - pictures? I didn’t notice any – and a dusty mid blue carpet. Our table was completely ready. It was covered with paper, not a cloth, but good-sized and good– quality napkins. Those black frame chairs with cane-work and seats. Pleasant and efficient young waiters and waitresses, not, I presume, professionals, but a decided cut above the usual. (I mean they weren’t in uniform.) The menu was hand-written photo-copied, distinguished but rather illegible small close writing. Few of the dishes mentioned in that spread about it the other week, or Fay Maschler’s article last night, were on offer, so that there is a sensibly short, but different, menu every day, I presume. I chose Cornish crab for a starter, but it was off. And that didn’t surprise me, - crab is so perishable, and restaurants never have a lot of it. So I settled for panzarell? panzanea? who knows? It was a simple mix of coarsely cut cooked tom, strips of red peppers, and bruschetta faintly garlicked. It doesn’t sound much, but the taste and feel was matched by the look, the two reds and the pale brown, R and M. had squid, grilled with a salad. I didn’t examine. Then I had grilled turbot, the only adornment being tiny wedges of? grilled deep fried? artichoke bottom. Each piece was as light as a feather, quiet unfatty, and deliciously tasty. The first bottle of wine, white, was ’72, the rest I didn’t notice. But all was delicious, memorable, and that mark of really good cooking, that you never feel at all full. I think the main feature of this restaurant is balance. Someone had a very clear vision. Roy was in lavish mood, a ’72 something with the first course and I went on with it, and another delicious red, and a half bot. of some dessert wine.

I seem to have been unnoticing this evening, I think that is because I go out so seldom now that I just plunged into the company and the meal completely, and didn’t look round. And Roy and Marian are essential to me as friends, and I have seen them so seldom in the last year. They themselves were shocked that I had Ella’s teddy for her – ‘Not since before October?’ Of course, I’ve chatted on the phone but even that, of late, scarcely at all. I wonder what they’d think if they knew how seldom I spoke live to anyone.

I don’t know that we said anything very profound, but Marian is such a pleasure to me, because she catches everything. And I was most touched over the drinks here, when she said, ‘Weren’t you getting a new dressing gown?’ and really went into it when I came back, wearing it. ‘Lined.’ ‘Good material,’ ‘How much was it?’ Roy told me about his future films and series. ‘Back up’ the thing that was piloted a while ago, goes out in the autumn, ‘Thief takers’ in Jan. ’96, and the war-time police film, ‘Whitehall 1212’ is to go ahead.

While Marian was in the loo, I might have raised my financial troubles, but of course I didn’t. I might have done if we’d been alone, but I couldn’t quench a light and merry evening. They are going up and I have come down. However, I did raise K’s queries. When I told him I was seeing Roy, and could I say anything useful, he said mildly, ‘You might ask him why he didn’t ring back when I rang to congratulate him on his pilot. You might ask him why he didn’t ring me about my Survival special, which I asked him to watch, as the biggest thing I’d done lately. You might ask him why he didn’t ring Robin after their ‘script conference’ on the song circle.’ I mentioned this briefly, Roy looked a little puzzled, and said he’s rung K. I’m afraid he has a sense missing, as so many writers have.

Nevertheless, a memorable meal and a lovely distracting evening.

Saturday April 22 1995

I had two potential lodgers supposed to be coming today. Neither turned up, and one of the five coming tomorrow or Monday, rang to cancel, which, I suppose is something.

I was slightly hungover, because I did have quite a dollop of whisky after R and M dropped me here. Had no lunch. Cleaned and washed up and generally got ready for the lodgers who never came.

However, I still relished my dinner. The second heating of the spag. bog. always better, and my whisky after. How I have to rest these days.

Sunday April 23 1995

Did manage the front garden, just in time. Swept up these lovely beech leaves for luxury compost. How I remember the two or three foot deep leaf mould in the lower wood at the cottage, - the sweet full smell, the feel, - just sniffing did you good.

The four possible lodgers didn’t turn up. Frightful waiting and not being able to do anything else. It’s curious how I endure useless waiting.

I watched a tiny bit of the BAFTA awards, because Billy Connelly was presenting it. I have admired him in the past, and I wondered how much he had betrayed himself by doing something so tacky. Well, he did his best, considering that the whole thing is so awful, but I am afraid it is only papering over the cracks. The only other ‘thing’ I’d say is that the award kept being given to the least obvious person, like an Agatha Christie. Ridiculous. B. Connolly said it all when he described the Oscars as ‘15 minutes of entertainment spread over 2 ½ hours.’ Alas, so were the BAFTA’s.

S. there. No answer to my queries, but he usually gets there at the last possible minute.

More actors’ foolishness. Stephanie Cole retailing her agoraphobia etc. on some medical programme. She and the interlocutor agreed as a commonplace, that some people made the ridiculous suggestion that she should pull herself together. There are genuine psychiatric conditions, of course, but there have been many many times when my saying pull y’self together or its equivalent, has been most efficacious. Oh, how I long for a lovely certifiable neurosis, that I could take refuge in, rather than just not having enough money, and growing old.

Monday April 24 1995

R. to dinner. Looking better, brought some nice wine, and refused money for the cream I’d asked him for on the ‘phone. Mush. Soup, pork chop, spring greens, apple tart. He goes to Cambridge next week to start his computer job. Goodness knows what he’s actually doing, but it sounds something promising. Two men in their forties are starting this firm, I suppose supplying some form of software? They obviously feel there will be expansion, and although R. is not especially qualified, the fact that they have taken him on a month’s trail is a plus to them, for me at least.

But I have to say that the last third of the evening was a plod for me, as he has little to say. He seems perfectly happy – I am a little bored, and make talk. That’s why we have so often been reduced to watching a video, in the past.

Another instance of R’s naiveté. I said again, to see what would happen, that the human hand was a remarkable organ, and that there was always a finger for any purpose you needed. That made him snigger a bit. Then I said that my third finger was perfect for scratching an itch in the inside corner of my eye – an itch I comparatively often have and he laughed helplessly. I was simply reporting a fact. That always seems to amuse him, odd.

In Oklahoma, it seems there are people who think the Federal gun laws are draconian. Pres. Clinton says that the Kalashnikov rifles will only be freely available over his dead body. Probably true.

Earlier today Roy left a message on machine about E. Bowen, after getting my letter about my difficulties. And I was hoping for a cheque. ! Well, not seriously, but I had to tell him, after him spending all that money.

Tuesday April 25 1995

By the way, a Mr. Palmerstone ! rang for the room and said 6.30 while R. was here. He didn’t turn up either.

This waiting means I can’t work.

Wednesday April 26 1995

The commissioner of the Police in New York has interviewed. He seemed an intelligent clam detached man. He’s over here to talk to our police, and has obviously received a very favorable impression. He repeatedly said that N.Y. made the mistake, twenty-five years ago, of allowing the quality of life to deteriorate, and that we hadn’t done that. He was impressed by public order, the clear presence of police, the clean streets. I was wryly amused by the unpopularity of his praise with the London Tonight reporter. He repeatedly tried to extract something unfavorable and worrying, but he could get nothing worse out of him, than ‘don’t make the same mistake we did.’ That should have be headline news, but of course it won’t be, it’s too encouraging.

Card from S saying he’s recording in S. Bush and can he come to lunch? Lovely, but I expect he’ll arrive late and leave early.

Still cold and dull, with an enchanting NE wind. Re-read Clive James and laughed aloud as usual.

Thursday April 27 1995

S. did arrive quarter of an hour late, and did leave an hour later. But it was lovely funny hour as always. He went yesterday, I think, to the Hatchard author’s party. He was chatting to A.N. Wilson., who seems to be becoming quite a friend, when Edwina Currie oiled up to them, bent double with flattery, and said to S. ‘Oh, Mr. Callow, I can’t wait to read your new biography of Oscar Wilde.’ She turned to A.N.W., and said, ‘And your New Yorker articles! And how I enjoyed Flaubert’s Parrot.’ I love the double-barreled bloomer, and a creep should behave like a creep.

He’s recording Conrad’s ‘Victory’ this time. He brought me one of those monster bottles of gin, with Gordon’s printed upside down on its base for use in a pub-pump – also half-a dozen books, a Robert Liddell, the P. White biog, J. Houseman.

Praised my omelette again, bacon and mush as usual, salad of chicory lettuce and pepper. Nothing else, no wine because of working, ditto cheese ‘because it coats the vocal chords.’ No bread, no grapes. I can’t follow his diet.

Friday April 28 1995

Went to pay the water rate. Drawing out my last £50. Left with £5 till Monday. Was going to Legends Of The Fall, but the times were awkward and of course no money. I heard some critics say that the film was a hundred and thirty three minute commercial for Brad Pitt.

A.N. Wilson quoted the Edwina C story in his Standard column tonight, but missed out the S. bit. Pity, though he was very funny about it.

I have read about fifty pages of the John Houseman. He seems to have had almost total recall, which may prove to be too total recall.

Saturday April 29 1995

Further to S’s visit. He’s gone off Americans at last, - we had a good get-together about their infantilism, and ignorance. Well, of course, in the past he’s only been in N. York and L.A. among ‘Show-biz’ people, and of course, ‘Show-biz’ masks the worst excesses of American ignorance and prejudice. Now he’s been struck in Texas. It’s American manners, politics, contempt for civilization, that I dislike, not individual Americans. It is just that, in America it seems to me to be harder for those individuals to be cultivated, gentle and kind. I must have mildly protested such views years ago, but he has to find out for himself. I have got better at not arousing useless adverse reactions.

Oh, and Miriam Margolyes rang him for Brighton to ask his advice about ‘Sister Gorge.’ She felt that she was hitting too hard and getting it wrong. She seemed to me from his description to be playing into the part – dyke, nasty, sweet, famous radio-series figure – rather one- dimensionally. He went down and attempted to get her to play across it – that is, you will come across without effort as an over-life-size bad-tempered dyke, so play across that, lighten it all.

Judging by the notices in the West End, he probably saved a disaster. By that I mean, that the notices were rather like my description at the top of the last page. But without S. it might have been destruction, whereas it was actually ‘Triumph.’ Well, I mean, there was a photo on the front page of The Standard of Miriam with Joan Collins in her dressing room. I’m afraid Miriam M. is Pat Rutledge, m.m. Wonderful gifts but a half-person.

And then he got on to Jo Tewson. He said she ruined the part of the BBC producer by playing for sympathy. Now I have to say that I don’t think that part would ever be suited to Jo, anyway, she should know that, and either refuse it or take the different opportunity. I suddenly saw that the very stock perf. she’s giving in that thing with Pat R. is what she wants to do now. Perhaps that’s why she’s dropped me, in case I say, or in case I just imply unspoken critism. Certainly I must do that for people, like Maggie Denger, with whom I otherwise had a jolly friendship I thought. But of course I certainly never shared their underlying assumption or standards. And despite never saying so, they knew.

Rang Roy and Tim and Julian.

K. asked me round tomorrow. Lovely.

Indian man and woman rang up for John Morey. Told them of the unpaid rent.

Sunday April 30 1995 Monday May 1 1995

He looked completely better from his cold. We watched the last epi. of the revived series of Only Fools And Horses – very funny. Steak casserole, so good, so satisfying to see him serve a meal so well, and so good, and remember I taught him to make this very dish, as a raw boy.

He tells me that Pete Sinfield? thought of the name that they’re going to use for their sound firm, Noiseworks. Good. They have got to the point of a new young singer, and her manager being interested in one of the songs. She is possibly going to be the next big thing, but of course her record co. has to like it too. It’ll be months.

The head of Granda music is coming to stay next week. ‘He wants to push me into drama, but I don’t want to write for drama any more.’

(I see that I have left the impression that Pete S. is part of Noiseworks and the song is its production – not so.) Simon S. is the other half of Noiseworks, and they’re going to make ‘noises’, and send them round to major TV companies.

Talking of Pete S. he thought my note about one of the songs needing a sudden burst of increased volume and urgency, absolutely right. Good.

We talked of Ernie, and Marjorie. He said would I like to see them this time when they come up? I’d better, he told me Nigel had said to him that Marjorie was ‘losing it.’ It seems that on her way in somewhere, her tights slipped down, and she couldn’t pull them up and walk, and said she’d be arrested for indecent exposure. Difficult to tell what really happened except that Nigel only understands one sort of joke.

The car boot sale is still on, he’ll come round to me a week on Saturday, and take my stuff away, and I’ll meet them on Sunday. It seems you rent a pitch, and put the stuff out on a trestle table. Not in the open boot. And clothes are not the thing. Odd. You have to get there at 7.30 a.m., but I will arrive graciously later. ‘There’ll be a chair for you.’ It was worth everything to hear him say as we sat down, ‘How’ve you been then.’ No mistaking when you mean it.

Today finally went to Legends Of The Fall, with Brad Pitt and Anthony Hopkins. I’m afraid I was wrong about Brad Pitt. I don’t mean that he didn’t act perfectly acceptably, but how any really forward looking young actors should choose - presumably – such a stale cliché-filled ‘family epic’ of a best seller, I cannot imagine. I left after half an hour, bitterly disappointed in both the film and its star.

R. rang in the evening after his first day at the computer firm. It sounds to me like the Red- Headed League. All he did today was paint the room he’s working in. I confidently expect to see a headline ‘£3 million bank-raid haul recovered from Moray Road loft.’

It took him about an hour and a half to get there and back. Well, they love driving.

Tuesday May 2 1995

Sharron came over to tell me all about France. Well, what a strange thing modern life is! When they arrived at the house, it looked like a garage. However, it will obviously be quite attractive when it’s finished. I said ‘Is he good at all the work?’ ‘Yes, very. And I didn’t do any DIY.’

A small village about 50 houses, tho’ medieval town by definition to my surprise, everything was shut by 9.30 and for the first weekend, Easter, they couldn’t get any wine! ‘There’s no crime, everything is left open, except that someone’s car was taken, and shunted into a sandpit and its roof slashed. ‘Terry’ seems to be a bit of a joke – they eventually left him in France with a tattoo and no luggage. The most interesting bit to me was that this fortnight in France – snigger, snigger – with new lover – snigger – they were accompanied by Simon’s son, aged 8. He seemed to be in full whinge most of the time, sounding like a parenting manual for stepmothers. ‘I want to be alone with my dad.’ ‘Why do you have to be in the same bedroom as my dad?’

Sharron said she gave him some ‘painful swings.’ They stayed on after she left, so the child got his wish. She had to come back on the bus, thirteen hours. Back at the house she found a rather serious mess. The semi-professional footballer had left, leaving a cheque for £500, which bounced. Despite paying £9 a month for gas, she has a bill for £50, which she has to pay. As no one else was there. One of the girls has also left, the landlord rang and seemed to think the two who are left are liable for the £500. Ludicrous. She’s only been there three months.

She rang the footballer, whose brother answered and said he couldn’t come to the ‘phone because he was watching the rugger final. Another time he pretended to be someone else at first for quite a time and then admitted it was him, and they had quite a talk! He does sound a baby.

She brought two bottles of wine, despite being so hard up. Hardly mentioned K., thank goodness. Earlier she might have compared his and Simon’s DIY unfavorably, for instance.

Dear sweet girl, My poor little fish stall produced Torbay soles and red mullet for £1.30. chocolate brandy whip, her favorite.

Wednesday May 3 1995

Suddenly very hot, and I mean 80º. It’s no use pretending any more that I enjoy it, I don’t. I tend to stay in with the blinds down, drawn. I have never enjoyed sitting in the sun with clothes on, or without. Only lying down and sunbathing which I can’t do now of course, because I’d never be able to get up. The result is that, in the hot weather, I do even less, if that’s possible. Delicious fish.

Thursday May 4 1995

Hotter 82º. There are now two cheques in Halifax which will be usable next Thursday. Till then I have about £50, and that as a result of getting two weeks of passion ! pension and not paying my Alliance Insurance.

To film in the evening. Mr. Schneer greeted me warmly, - well, warmly for him. I enquired after Mrs. S’s precarious health. ‘She’s over there.’ And there in the back row was a conservatively dressed elderly lady, navy coat and skirt, pearls. I went up and said how pleased I was to see her there, well enough to come to the film at all. She said she was going to try and come to all the films now. I said ‘And there’s this lovely warm weather to greet you, almost as warm as Florida.’ She said firmly, ‘I can be just as ill in the sunshine in Florida.’ I saw immediately what her illness was. Janet told me later that Mr. Schneer is 73 and his father is still alive aged 99. Help.

The film Circle of Friends set in Ireland. How beautiful is still looks. Three girls go to university. One of them falls for the golden boy of the year. Eventual happy ending. I rather loved it. The boy was played by Chris O’Donnell, no doubt the money peg the film was hung on. But the part written up for the big American star, as it might be Far and Away with Tom Cruise, which I believe was terrible. Nor did he have that air of condescending to a funny little Euro film. He played on equal terms with an excellent Irish accent and fitted in the frame of the thing. Possibly he did it because he really is fairly closely Irish. But the performance for me was Minnie driver; oh, the Irish, the emotion hit the back of her neck and flowered on her face. A love story can always move me if reasonably done. And this was well done.

Earlier in the day I’d investigated the possible supply of a tutu for Hazel’s three year old granddaughter, ‘I think she’s going to be an actress.’ Oh dear. I rang Paul R. and left a message on the machine for Sandra, for suggestions. Then I rang Gamba and Freed. Gamba girl replied rather limply, that they had a tutu ‘but only down to six, with half-flounces £25, with full- flounces £35. But we haven’t any in stock! (Again how odd business people are. Tutus don’t go off, why do they ever run out?) So I rang Freed, and got the sort of shop-girl I love. ‘I’m enquiring for friend of mine, who lives in the country, and wants to buy a tutu for her three-year- old gran-’ ‘Pink and White?’ ‘Well I’d have to ask. Can you give me any idea of the cost?’ Off mike – ‘How much are the child tutus?’ Gamba was firmly bypassed at £18-20.

Then Sandra rang and was so sweet. I suddenly saw that she hadn’t given me any more tickets not because of anything but lack of mind. She confirmed that Gamba was expensive, and offered to alter the Freed tutu to fit. She also told me a good bit of gossip – of course, wardrobe mistresses are notoriously dotty and hysterical. Now Sandra is only thirtyish and Scottish suburban and may be at least accurate in catching what is being widely said. I also could believe it, that, when I asked why Fiona Chadwick had been sacked, she gave me a first answer, ‘Well, she was very surprised, and so were all of us. We gave her a good present, and we had a nice farewell dinner.’ So I said, ‘Why was a principal dancer sacked? I thought they never were unless they were ill or off or drunk.’ ‘Ah, well,’ said Sandra, you see Fiona’s husband used to live with Antony Dowell, and he’s never forgiven her.’ Crappy.

Friday May 5 1995

Paid £20 income tax, will have to pay the Alliance on Thursday. I think I’ll give them two months, to show willing.

In the p.m. to see the new film ‘Before Sunrise.’ I was not expecting much. I am always wary of an American film in which there is much talk on life and love and ha, ha death, as it is not one of their strong points by any means. Two young lovers, just met wandering about Vienna for a day and night, might have inspired an American writer to unplumbed depths of bathetic pretentiousness. I was very agreeably surprised. There was not a false note anywhere. Both performances were more or less perfect. Julie Delpy, sensitive, supple, such a speaking face, very touching. And Ethan Hawke, whom I have always thought promising, surprised me. When I say that he at one point, initiated Dylan Thomas reading a W.H. Auden poem without making a fool of himself, and matched Julie Delpy completely, without ever condescending to European sensitivity as most Americans actors so crudely do, I am saying that he got further into my good books than any other yank actor of his generation. He actually seems to possess a brain.

Now this is the sort of film Brad Pitt should advance to, but so depressingly hasn’t.

I see lord Harlech’s sister, Alice Ormsby Gove, was found dead of a heroin overdose in a rundown area of Bournemouth. The landlord said ‘She arrived with all her possessions in two bin-bags.’ Said run down area, Boscombe. House a few yards from the first house I remember.

Strange how some areas go quite inexplicably down. It is an area of untouched Victorian houses, for instance.

Oh, and a Doctor Who fan sent me a letter asking for an autograph, enclosing a SAE, and, a new touch, a sort of cigarette card of me as Cardinal Borusa. Nothing about me on the back, of course, only the show and the part. Letter from some poor unemployed half-illiterate (I’am for I’m) in a suburb in Leeds. Letter finished ‘Best wishes, for family life and acting.’ Sent it for a laugh to K. as the nearest thing to ‘family life.’

Saturday May 6 1995

Heard a line from that ghastly film Forrest Gump. The mother gave this as a piece of serious advice, possibly on her deathbed, ‘Life’s like a box of chocolate, you never know what you’re going to get.’ Not only grossly sentimental, but factually untrue.

Rang Mary L. Struck all over again how she loves wrong-footing you. Happily she finds it harder and harder with me! But look where it’s left her, poor darling. She has to contradict.

Still very hot, 85º. West London hottest place in the country. Watched part of the VE celebrations in Hyde Park. The Wueen Mother rather uncertain on her feet, but quite extraordinary otherwise. Most people ate dead at 94, let alone compos mentis and able to make a short speech without notes. And her voice, silvery is the exact word. Pure, sweet, clear.

The gay play S. sent me, is a fair old mess, as a script, I mean. No tile page, no author’s name, pgs. 10-11 misplaced, and even worse, Act I ended at pg. 37, pgs 37-5? in the middle of Act II. Just incompetence with a photo copier.

Rang Justin to talk about the films, during the course of which he said he wished he were back here.

Sunday May 7 1995

R. rang. He has bought that house, £49,000. Three bedrooms, one v. small for a study. Nothing to be done to it except aesthetically. ‘The bathroom and loo are peach.’

Told me a bit more about the firm. The month’s trial seems to have vanished, as one of the partners signed the confirmation for the mortgage. He is also recovering from bankruptcy. It seems they make electronic books… let us hope they sell. ‘They the only firm in the U.K. doing this.’ Said he would ring K. It was four o’clock. I felt wistful. I wouldn’t ring K at four, in case I interrupt something, and he cut me off, as I know he has to. He can with me, you see.

Monday May 8 1995

There is no clearer indication of lack of imagination than that people want to watch war films, fictional ones, I mean.

Justin L. rang while I was in the bath to say how much he’d enjoyed Before Sunrise. He actually rang from outside the cinema, so impressed was he. I’m glad, because you can never be sure that a ‘young’ film which appeals to someone my age, will necessarily appeal to someone who is actually young.

Oh, yesterday watched a bit of the Hyde Park affair. I was touched by the idea of a child of the country with each Head of State when they signed an olive leaf for reconciliation. Later on the queen lit a beacon, the first of some two thousand, and then pressed a lever. Across the entire arena to the Post Office tower shot a strange straight bar of golden light, more like a special effect imposed on the screen from inside the studio. As it reached the top of the tower, a beautiful fountain of fireworks, burst into the air. Beauty out of ugliness. A laser, of course, which would indeed have seemed supernatural fifty years ago.

Then at 8.38 there was the two mins silence. I wonder if anyone under sixty believes that the old silence really did bring everything, traffic, factories, everything to a standstill. I think it would be even more striking today, when silence is a rare and precious accident. Who cultivates silence now?

Today the queen Mother appeared on the balcony just as she did fifty years ago, aged 44. Only the Queen and Princess M. were with her, to complete the picture, I suppose. A small stage had been built between the two main gateposts, from which Vera Lynn, Harry Seacombe and Cliff Richard led the crowds in maritime songs, except for C.R. whom, I suppose they brought in to provide some modern (sic) interest. Very funny, him singing Congratulations to the Queen Mother, everyone carefully ignoring ‘I’ll tell the world that I’m in love with you.’ The Queen and Q.M. and M. were seen to be singing along. Then something happened on the roof, little somethings coming down on parachutes, I saw the Queen say ‘Step back, Mummy’ as they seemed to be landing anywhere. Did they explode interestingly? If they did, I didn’t see them. Then some fireworks went off, but you couldn’t see them in the sunshine. They left a lot of smoke behind them, If anyone had turned their TV set on then, they would have taken it to be a Newsflash of a terrorist attack on B.P.

What interested me were the crowds. As enthusiastic as ever, awash with union jacks and when one saw the flashes of today side by side, as it were, with 1945. The crowds were bigger, The Mall today packed right back to Admiralty Arch. Interesting, as television is supposed to…

There was an interview with Princes M. beforehand. She is certainly formidable, more than one moment reminding you that she was a direct descendant of Queen Victoria. To the idiot question, considering that what the interview was about, ‘Do you remember VE day?’ she said, with crushing lapidary emphasis, and a flash of Hanover Blue, ‘Very well indeed.’ And there is no doubt that she has a feeling for words. She looked back at the release of VE day, and said ‘It had been loud… and dark… and gloomy…. and uncertain.’ ‘Loud’ is specially good. All these lorries, let alone the bombs. ‘So VE day was a, a sunburst.’ Yes, I can see she can be funny, as Julian and S. have at different times said. The Queen taught her to drive. ‘In about a fortnight. She was very patient.’

Tuesday May 9 1995

Re-recording Ego fairly idly, and, the while watching a most touching, heart rending in fact, programme; simple people reading ‘last letters’ left behind by people who were in fact killed and did never come back. I shed many tears over these simple letters, and was amazed all over again how true feeling can rise above any sort of literary ability. To watch a middle aged woman with tears pouring down her face, hardly able to finish a letter that ended ‘Always remember that I worshipped the ground you walked on. Your loving Daddy.’ And a lot of kisses. (I see I haven’t finished that sentence. I was crying myself.) The letter was given to her by her mother when she was fourteen. Her father was killed when she was four. He was twenty-eight.

What is the connection with Ego, as Agate rather too often said? One of the letters, which I recognised from a small section reproduced, was the Rowberry letter from one of the Ego vols. It was again touching to see it read out by his clumsy middle-aged sister and brother. Dear people. I think his letter won some sort of competition didn’t it? Neither that nor Agate were mentioned.

K. rang, to say the car boot sale was postponed for a week. They – he and Sonia! – went on a recce of sales, saw about five, saw one they liked, ‘And this’ll make you laff.’ He found a copy of his first Music House record, rather battered, £2. He’s got thirty copies in his cupboard. He hasn’t had my Dr Who letter. Bother, and I sent it before the holiday. I found a quote in Ego 6 about a young composer and Brahms. Sent it in answer to his saying he’s just beginning to understand the musicXX.

Wednesday May 10 1995

Forgot to record that, on the night when Sharron was here, just as I was dishing up, - of course – Paul Priest – is that his name? it can’t be – rang up. Whatever his name is, he’s the chap who was Minister of St. Georges in the early ‘80s, and as he seemed to have a little glimmer of something, I gave him Daddy’s handsome solid traveling communion set. When you think of the state of any of the churches, I thought it unwise to wait for someone really individual, who would almost certainly never come along. He betrayed yet again a distressing insecurity, a craving for me to give some sort of identity. I have seldom felt so strongly a pathetic clutching at the hem of my garment. I did my best, but the dinner á point, his obvious bewilderment that one might be eating at eight, and Sharron giggling in the background, may have given him the feeling that I was ‘brushing him off’ – I hope not. But of course I was because I couldn’t take him on. Heavens – just the word – he’s a fifty year old Methodist minister with grown-up children doing infernally dreary things. He said Daddy’s set was his most precious possession. Probably his only-even vaguely beautiful one, but it shouldn’t be his most precious. Priest? And it’s Daddy’s b’day!

Rang Sharron and had a good old chat. She said she was clinging on by her finger-tips in her work. But ‘I’m making enough to live on.’ I told her about R’s house, which she hadn’t heard of. I said to her that his move and his sort of job would incredibly divide him from us. ‘Well, he hasn’t answered my last two calls.’ I said, ‘Well, a 9-5 job divides too, from us.’ Sharron said percipiently, ‘ I think he’s always wanted a 9-5 job.’ I told her about the Dr Who letter and card. She screamed with laughter, and said could she photocopy it? I said it would be at K’s where she’s going tomorrow. Lovely.

Rang K to say had he got the Dr Who? Yes, he had, ‘Isn’t it funny?’ ‘Yes, hilarious.’

Thursday May 11 1995

Had a bad night, came down and finished the rice dish made out of the end of the guinea-fowl, at 2.15, watched the late cinema show, and went back to bed at three thirty, and before I put my earplug back in, heard a bird singing at 3.35.

Took three aspirin for my knee. It seems to help apart from relieving the pain for a while. It is an anti-inflammatory drug.

The warm weather has gone. Icy. Northeast winds.

A trailer for From Green Hell. ‘I didn’t know the answer. I did the same thing everyone does when faced with the unknown. I quietly pray.’ Well, I have known some noisy prayers.

Woody Allen: ‘I have no need to kill for my work.’ They’re all surprised Bullets over B’way is good, after all his troubles. Why is it a surprise? He’s a good enough artist to do his best work when life is at its most difficult.

A literary discussion. John Carey is an idiot. I suddenly thought that Andrew L. Webber and David Hare both froze me off without a word, because they knew that I could see through them.

In the p.m. to Alliance Leicester at Fulham to pay the insurance on the mortgage that the DS doesn’t pay. £25. 81 and decided to pay two months as I’d had those couple of cheques. Went to the cinema there for a sit-down. ‘Once We Were Warriors’, a film about Maoris. I think it might have had some primitive merit, but I had a bit of a tummy upset, and was not in the mood. Later I squirted a bit down the skirt of my new dressing-gown on the way to my bath. A good thing it wasn’t in the cinema, which by the way, I left after half an hour. Odd, that squittering, which I’ve done once or twice before in my life – no warning, as it seems just a fart.

Friday May 12 1995

Still tired and aching. I can see old age is feeling exhausted after twelve-mile walk, when all you have done is go to the shops and back. Slept in, and had smoked trout for lunch after my nice shop around yesterday.

In the p.m. to The Renoir to see new film Exotica. I had quite a bit of shopping to do, and the Renoir is almost next to a Safeways. But that didn’t compensate for the tiresome film, oh the slowness, and the pretentiousness. I only lasted to the end because I was sitting down and avoiding the rush-hour. Still, at Safeways, got sirloin reduced to £1.74 – it was delicious, especially as in the last day or two, I have not been feeling quite up to the mark, and steak is so easy to digest. And in Tesco yesterday found a half shoulder, the blade end, of course for only £2.70, very cheap, as even a half can be found for £5, at Safeways and elsewhere.

On my way home, stopped to talk to that nice woman who lives halfway along Margravine. She used to be married to a man who used to be a parson. He not only unfrocked himself, but later left her for a younger woman. I have always found him rather frenetic, and with a ‘bright’ approach from years of religious boredom. I could see that she was troubled by something. It seems her ex has cancer, and it’s now spread to his armpit. He’s only having alternative treatment – she didn’t specify what alternative. But I was struck by the anxiety with which she said ‘How did he look?’ when I said I’d had a chat with him at H’Smith some weeks ago. The two daughters drifted up, too. They’re both good-looking, tho’ the younger is still puppy-fatty. I told them a few stories, and made them laugh at a nasty time. What a creep their father is, poor girls.

Somebody’s pumped money into Chelsea Football ground, enabling them to keep going there, thus continuing a blight on quite a large section of the Fulham Rd and Fulham Broadway.

Advert for the Take That concert at Earl’s Court. Five extra concerts due to public demand. 75,000 seats sold in a single day. For once one can believe the hype.

Saturday May 13 1995

John N rang after the message I left. Oh, he’s working so hard, with constant breakfast meetings. At the moment they’re angling for £8 million of lottery money. I’d have thought that was a very small amount in their world. Why does money loom so large now? Is money the only reason for idealism? Surely not. After all, I myself have given away quite a lot of money out of belief in ‘good.’ Hasn’t that always been the case? Cynicism has accomplished so little.

Rang Roy and had a good chat. I still don’t understand why he’s not pursuing his RSC play that he read to me, as it was written. He’s so cautious that he doesn’t say – I would have to force it out of him, if I could bring myself to do it. Perhaps it’s as well to pursue TV series and so on – with a wife and child…

But it isn’t, necessarily. It depends.

Lord Goodman has died at 81. I am sorry. I feel less safe. After all, the ENO is at the Coliseum, almost entirely because of him. He could see the obvious and not reject it. I was interjected that someone said he was no connoisseur, I wonder? But what he had was commonsense.

Sunday May 14 1995

Rang Hazel, because I was at last getting going on the first episode of the Flying Dutch. She’s off to Swansea for a crime writer’s weekend. I happened to mention, I can’t think why, the Priestley play when the King died, at Cardiff. And the director at Salisbury coming straight from Swansea and saying how nice it was. She said she and Barbara P. watched the funeral procession from the flat roof of the Institute and how moved they both were. Seymour Place, was it?

Rang R. he said he was just about ring me, to tell me about the arrangements for the car boot sale. He’d had a chat to K. and could they come to diner after picking up the stuff on Sat. I resent very much R. busybodying around between me and K and said so. He was obliged to say So I’m asking myself to dinner on Sat. Most annoying.

Monday May 15 1995

Fawlty Towers is put out again, 20 years later. It was just before my TV time, but, of course, I’ve seen bits and never quite seen the point. Conscientiously tried again, and switched off and switched off. John Cleese alone has not, to me, the art of being agreeably disagreeable. I feel too much that I am staying at that hotel.

As a pedestrian, as someone who has never thought of buying a car or learning to drive, and goes in a car, at the most, three or four times a year, when I sometimes by chance, hear the traffic reports, the Blackwall Tunnel, The Hangar Lane flyover, East India Dock Rd, The M25, all traffic bound, are to me as fabulous and unknown as Nineveh and Tyre. And oh how I wish that they were all one with Nineveh and Tyre, crumbling into history.

Panorama about the Oklahoma accused. Oh dear, how utterly ignorant and primitive the average American is! Really it makes you wonder whether the original settlers’ only impulse was to get away from brains.

Tuesday May 16 1995

I was amused by John Cleese saying, in an interview in the Radio Times, that he only considered himself to be about twelve after his therapy. Before it seems, he was only eight ‘I’ve only met two completely grown-up adults in my life, - one who was a guy who ran a fundamental Christian organisation in the U.S., and the other was the Dalai lama.’ I fear his odd egotistic temperament doesn’t allow him much knowledge of other people. He certainly knew nothing about me after three days on a film together. I found him typically self-absorbed, but of course he doesn’t realise it.

Seduced by the lowest price I’ve yet seen for English wine, £2.99. I boought a bottle of Mole Valley, nice name. Well, it’s better, but still a mort too hock-like for me. Drinkable, but I won’t buy it again.

Rang Tim back from Dorset and his TV in Birmingham. He tells me, to my amazement, that the house has sold. This is a real surprise, and must show something about the market. He has been trying to sell for, oh, three years or so, and has been one of the sufferers from negative equity. So he’ll be moving, and Mark and Cecilia finding their own place. Now that it’s happened, he suddenly feels he’d like to go on as they are! How things are changing!

Wednesday May 17 1995

Filthy weather wind, rain, freezing up north and not warm down here.

Two deaths, both interesting to me, though not distressing. Charles Monteith, the ex-chairman of Faber and Faber, was a friend of Gerard I’s, and I was introduced to him there. He asked me to dinner at his house, then near Westminster Theatre, I seem to remember it was 1952, I was destitute, and would go anywhere for a free meal and experience. Charles M., a big bulky rather clumsily-made man, seemed much older than me, because he’d been through the war. Gerard told me he’d been badly wounded in the legs. This made me shrink from the thought of the scars. I remember nothing of the evening, except that I wished I had money and a small elegant house in the centre of London, but I’m sure the talk must have been cultivated and amusing and generally ‘booky.’ He lent me Jean Genet’s – what’s that title ending in Rose? That must have been a sign of some sort to him; as I was saying Goodbye, he bearishly hugged me, and sent his tongue a considerable way down my throat. I turned tail, never saw him again, until about eight or nine years ago, and he wrote crossly to ask for the Genet back some months later. Of course I had no money to send the book back. I think if circs had been different, we could have been friends. The obituary told me that he was only five years older than me. What a strange barrier the war made in that way! I believe he did much good at Faber’s.

And now Eric Porter is dead, and he’s a year younger. What a difficult touchy man I found him! He was one of those sad people who go through life with a bitter chip on his shoulder, for instance, because he never went to a university. I knew that he was of humble origin, - his father was a bus-conductor. I expect he was, or felt himself to be, an ugly boy. He was still pockmarked, and was probably a mass of acne in his teens. I have no impression of his figure, his body, except for height. No doubt he hated that, too. He was gauche in conversation but hid it under a sneer. It is a loss to me that I never saw him in his great stage parts. He had strength and command and savage incisiveness.

His season at the Bristol Old Vic was when D was leading lady. She had much admiration for his acting, and not much for the man, he was the actor of that season. I remember that when I joined ‘Salad Days’, everyone was telling me how marvelous E.P. had been at Bristol, and wondering how the show could succeed without him, as he had been the star. (Perhaps it was as well that he didn’t come in with it, and disturb the all-in company ‘feel’ that was a good percentage of the success.)

There were some rumours about him, that D. never found the truth about, so I only record them as rumours. One was that that he’d left the stage for a year or more, and gone into a monastery. Another, and more persistent, was that he liked little boys. That was possibly true, - he certainly was never linked with anyone. Poor Eric, but many good judges greatly admired his work.

K. rang, to talk as if R’s call did not exist. ‘I’ll call round on sat., price all the goods, - how much have you got? I’m rather worried about R’s load, - what I’ve got will more or less fill the van. I’m buying a bed this afternoon. I’ll pick you up on Sat. and you can stay the night and we’ll go on to the sale in the morning. Maida Vale.’

So much for R’s bossiness. But there was another slighter example of it later on. He rang at 10.0 and said he’d told K, about picking up the compost on the way. What a nerve.

Thursday Amy 18 1995

They’re dropping like flies. Now John Philips is dead. An excellent dependable actor, a bit boring, but in some ways all the better for that. I worked with him once or twice. He was the sort of actor who probabl couldn’t exist now, - like Raymond Huntley, he was like a civil servant in real life. He was at B’Ham university with D. I often thought university revues in those days, written by Henry Reed, and acted by D and John P, was no mean combination.

As a man, think he had made his mind up about most things, far too soon. I was amused that he was still patronising, and attacking and contradicting D, as if they were still undergraduates, some thirty or forty years later. I think he had no suspicion that D’s mind was another kind from his. His wife, Pauline, I think, saw him whole and could therefore be happy. He had two sons. Odd to wonder what they’re made of having a big baby for a father. Within the limits of his talent, he knew his job thoroughly, I would say, from working with him, and from what I saw of his work.

Friday May 19 1995

Warmer, quite pleasant. In the p.m. to see new film ‘Don Juan de Marco.’ A charming and inventive, almost stylish, romantic comedy. Johnny Depp takes another major step forward. His Spanish accent alone is good enough for him to forget it and act with it. He can bring off as the truth it is, ‘What is worth living or dying for? Only love.’

The only blot, and it is literally a large one, is Marlon Brando. There is nothing wrong with his performance, it is witty and quite delicate – provided you keep yr. eyes shut. He is grotesquely implausibly fat.

But I expect much of Johnny Depp.

Of course I am used to illiteracy in the written notices scribbled with magic markers on a plastic board by station staff. But sometimes now there are gross grammatical errors in printed posters, announcing some major re-building or closing of something lasting for a matter of months. There is a printed poster at Baron’s Court station now, which starts ‘The escalator between the District line and the Piccadilly line at Earl’s Court, are…’ This has the equivocal charm of all illiteracies, - it spreads confusion all round. Are both escalators out of order, or only one? Or alternatively, how many escalators are there between… I wonder what foreign tourists make of it. Well, the Japanse mightn’t notice… it’s getting warmer.

Wrote to London Transport. One is used to crass illiteracies on the plastic boards scribbled on by magic markers – Is that what they’re still called? – oh, no felt-tip pens – but, in the last year or two, the classes of the ‘70s, have come through with errors on printed posters. There is one now at Baron’s court, *‘The escalator between the District line and the Piccadilly line at Earls’ court, are…’ it has the best of charms as an error, because you’re left wondering how many escalators are out of order. To a provincial or a tourist, even better. How many escalators are there between… I presume such posters are approved at quite a high level.

Fancy, repeating myself

Saturday May 20 1995 Sunday May 21 1995 Monday May 22 1995

I was so whacked at the end of the boot sale, that it’s taken till now to write. My legs and feet…

Well, now. He called for me at about five thirty, and had remembered his key. He’d hired a dear little red van, which looked brand new. He looked through the top of the kitchen-cupboard, and I kept saying ‘Oh, but that was on the table at Earls’ Court when we first…’ He said, ‘You are hopeless at this.’ He is not at all a hoarder, and would probably have cleared the whole house, left to his own taste! We got to the house, and he said that Sonia would be arriving about seven with the food. ‘There’s a mass of washing-up. I’ve been at it since eight.’ When I went into the drawing room, I saw what he meant, the back d-room was more or less full to head-height of large cardboard boxes, and miscellaneous objects, including a bicycle without a seat. My comparatively small contribution made quite a pile in the front d-room. I got on with the washing-up. I’ve seen more in that sink. He went off to fetch Robin. They came back with R’s things, again quite a lot.

Sonia eventually arrived about seven-thirty. (I had made up my mind to a fiercely late dinner.)

Well, she’s thirty-nine, and looks it. A face long rather than round, an aquiline, not to say hooked nose. A goodish figure, mid-blonde hair piled up, clothes unnoticeable but that may be because she was dressed for car boot selling. She was inclined to be amiable (How do you do? You’ve heard so much about me.) and struck me at once of being so like one of those busy bossy women who infest film sets, with the shared Philistine values of the crew. She had to be nice to me and was, as far as she could, but I fear she’s rather commonplace, no apparent wit or general information. Being thirty nine, she has enough worldly wisdom, I expect, not to try to talk about books, for instance, know what to avoid, only a negative help. Over dinner, very late, of course, K and R started to laugh helplessly, as usual, and it would have gone on to be the usual memorable gale of laughter, but she showed that she was put off (‘I suppose it’s that funny’) and despite my twice-repeated disclaimer and attempts to include her, I felt obliged to behave like an Edwardian hostess and consciously start a different conversation with R. and she talked to K. by the way, over the pricing of our stuff. Her behavior reminded me very vividly that she was a small shop-keepers daughter. She also ate scarcely any of my spag-bog., but said she never ate much, and K. confirmed that… R and K had a second helping. A moment when I could have slapped K. – he can be so crass sometimes – she ‘doesn’t cook’ and is proud of it, but, to K’s amazement, she’d made the one thing she does do, a chocolate mousse… and K said ‘You’re talking to the master of the C.M.’ or words to that effect. I felt for her. And it was good, - I had a second helping. By this time it was half past eleven. K. had had a bath and was in a toweling robe with R. on the pocket… During the coffee, I saw him go out casually, and was away for a bit. I knew that, exhausted as he was, he was getting his room ready. (Oh, they had a joint over the dinner-table – she offered me a draw.) I’d been up to the room before, and of course it’s a junk room now, especially as the hard top of R’s Sprite was leaning against the basin, that is, between me and the basin. A big double bed, nothing on it. I said to him just give me a rug or two and a pillow. He’d made the bed with sheets and a pillow case, and a frilly duvet, a pretty night-light on the bedside table.

Of course I didn’t sleep much, dozing and resting as much as I could. Heard them humping away, and envied them that relaxation, which allows you to sleep better. He had given me his funny little alarm clock. – the works go in the thickness of an envelope, but of course I was awake before it went off, and knocked on their door. He was awake!

Sat firmly on the drawing-room sofa reading until the loading of the van and Sonia’s very smart red jeep was finished – most of it was done last night. I cannot carry and walk much, and I knew the day itself was as much as I could do, and that proved to be the case.

R. arrived looking thinner than ever, and with his small head reduced further by the usual hideous baseball-cap. Off our little flotilla sat at about seven. I’d sat worrying that I’d be car- sick, as on most film-locations, but this time I was with Sonia, and that kept the sickness at bay. We went through the area where St. Johns Wood abuts on Camden, more or less unknown to me – curiously mixed. Camden Square, beautiful houses, some of them got up, but weeds bulging the paving-stones. When we got to site of the sale, there was already a queue of people wanting to sell, fifty or so, without cars or vans. There were already many inside the large car-park, and in the end there must have been between two and three hundred cars and vans selling, and when the customers were let in, a moving queue four or five abreast, flowed by for virtually five hours or so we were there. And what crowds! Seventy five percent of them had strong foreign accents, and that look in their eyes which says ‘I am going to get something for nothing, no matter whose neck I tread on.’ One smartly dressed woman marched into our little pitch, bought two stained duvets and crammed them into a black bin-bag. I can still see her immaculately painted nails struggling with the rather short ends of the bag to tie them into a knot, encouraged from the sidelines by her husband, in an overcoat and a trilby-hat. Egyptian? Goodness knows.

I sat most of the time, either on a canvas chair K had brought for me or, as the sun became very hot, - my poor bald head – on the back of the van. That was restful because my feet were off the ground. I was also able to take the heavy float – far too much copper which I never used – and put it on the floor of the van by me, in easy piles, and no bending. Some sharp-looking men came round first thing, - the dealers, it seems – and within seconds the old blue TV had gone for £10, and the music-publisher’s coffee cups, for £7.50, and this tho’ the TV doesn’t work, and there are only four cups and two saucers, one of them chipped. They look superficially grand, gold and red and blue enamels and little painted panels, but they are course on inspection and instead of the Meissan mark, it says Foreign. Altogether I made nearly £70, R made about £100 and K £120. He had a lot of passé sound equipment and boxes of wires with endless funny knobs and plugs on their ends, a great honey pot for people of his own age. I never heard how much Sonia made, but I wasn’t very charmed by her attitude. She became even more bossy, and went past me at one point, hissing out, ‘I love taking money.’ The look in her eye was too like the customers for my liking. Later, and even worse, although my seat in the van was framed by the two doors, with further barriers of goods in a circle from door to door, I came back from rearranging some things, only three feet away, I found her standing in front of the van, saying ‘I don’t like you leaving this money unattended.’ Really. And it was my money, not hers.

I seemed to pee a lot for some reason, and it was quite a walk to the loos in the school? Community centre? Presided over by a squat shaven-headed unsmiling dwarfish youth. I held my breath past the queue-bound hamburger stand, and looked at the wandering mindless crowds. I marveled all over again at the general deadness of faces, how people present themselves as remote and sullen.

As time went on I found I bargained quite well, and found that I didn’t at all mind it, bargaining as the seller. It’s as the buyer that it’s so embarrassing and distasteful, being mean. No doubt that’s why I’m penniless. There was a bike for sale in the foyer of the loo for £35, still unsold the last time I went as everyone was packing up. K. sold his for £8. R was wonderful with the people, jollying them along very skillfully. Oh, there was a funny little incident, R. had some electronic something still in its cardboard box. He started his sales talk, ‘Have you got a modemn, because, if so’, followed by a stream, of incomprehensible technicalities. However I heard it so often that, as a smallish Mediterranean young man was examining it, I said playfully to R. ‘Really, you know, I’ve heard that plug so often, I think I could try selling it, even if I don’t know what ‘modem’ even means.’ So we were both a bit startled when the young man looked up and said venomously, ‘If you don’t know what modem means, keep your mouth shut.’ I wasn’t in the least shaken, as K. thought I was. I just mused how easily ignorance, insecurity, and especially, stupidity, can quite easily be the spark for an ‘incident.’ He must be stupid, because I really couldn’t work out what he thought I’d said or meant.

Two of my ‘objects’ received no notice at all. One, my 1934 Box Brownie still in its leather case, was only looked at perfunctorily once. The black and white Pollock’s Toy Theatre sheets of Der Friechutz given by Roy Strong years ago, are authentic, reproduction only, but glimpsed half out of a wrapper would attract anyone with an eye. The only glance they got was from a very small boy who obviously took them for a ‘comic.’ At the very last they were bought – I made him buy scenery and script as well – for his little boy to colour, by a nice Indian man. I’ve never known what to do with them, and have never had much interest in Toy Theatres.

All the things and clothes K. sold or tried to sell, were a run-through of his, and my past. How ‘things’ remind one of the passage of time! There were the black metal, metal-gauze seated chairs, that I went with him to buy at that funny shop by Centrepoint, for the new flat at B’Wood Rd, now rusty, with the japanned frames chipped and scratched. I rescued one of those Liberty frogs that I gave him, partly because I think it will be an antique of the future, - not that I care about that, but also to have a little memory of those days that seem at once near and far.

Among the stuff appeared in pieces, with the copper reflector bent, the little round electric-fire that he kept after the Nicolson. As he put it down, he said ‘Remember this? If I don’t sell, it, I’ll have it with me for life as a reminder of the Nicolson.’ ‘I’m afraid you’ve got me as a reminder of the Nicolson.’ Oh, the look he gave me in the middle of that car-park.

I couldn’t have gone on much longer, so it was a relief that it closed at half-past one. K. said I was going with him, not Sonia this time. He never missies my feelings, and must have sensed that I didn’t think much of her. So I didn’t say anything even when we were alone. I could not praise, and equally could not find one or two niceish surface things to say. We despise that.

I think if there is one observation I shall carry away from the sale, it is the reinforced conviction of our difference from the majority of people. And that difference was neatly illustrated after K. dropped me at St. Johns Wood station. Out of it streamed such a crowd as you have to wait to cross, like a busy street, ‘What’s that?’ ‘Oh, Lords.’ I waved goodbye, and found myself quite alone on the down escalator. The up escalator was crammed with unmoving people. I was looking at them, but none of them were looking at me.

When I got back here, with my legs so painfully aching and my feet falling off, I fell into a bath, and collapsed on the sofa in my d-gown and waited for the aching to stop. After my bad night, it was heaven to feel myself dozing off. The ‘phone rang, it was Hazel ringing on Sunday after all. I perked myself up to talk. I was just dozing deliciously off again, ‘Is Lucy there?’ No, she wasn’t. Sweet dreams were coming on again, when – another wrong number who didn’t even speak. I had actually dozed off when Tom Holt rang to see how the episode was going.

Today, Monday, I went to Selfridge’s to pay £10 to my a/c, to Shepherd’s Bush to pay the video payment, to get my pension and pay the £89 electric bill. So more than bang goes my boot money. And more.

Tuesday May 23 1995

Sat down and finished the episode. Am fairly satisfied with it. I will make a fair copy for Tom tomorrow. It has to be b hand, of course, twenty pages at a minute and a half to speak, of course.

On the news heard that a coach from Bournemouth, filled with old age pensioners, went off the road on the way back from visiting a brewery in Cardiff. Well. ‘British tourists shot in India’ did turn out to be Christine.

Forgot to mention that K. has a new bed. Rather nervously for him, asked me twice whether it isn’t too heavy. It’s ‘country’ style, fairly thick turned horizontals at the head and foot, perfectly decorates the room round it.

Legs have recovered very well.

Wednesday May 24 1995

Recopied the episode and sent it off. Phew!

K. rang, to say he’d gone to ‘The Ivors’ last night with Pete Sinfield. I didn’t realise at first he meant the Ivor Novello Awards. Now that’s interesting because I also forget to mention that K. went off to talk to Pete S, on Sat, came back and murmured to me that Pete S. had some woman troubles, interesting because Pete S is older, and I had not felt that he had another relationship except work.

And now poor Bobby Flemyng has died. I say ‘poor’ because I felt he was never very happy. Certainly lately, when he has been so crippled. Last time I saw him was with two sticks at the top of some stairs on the tube, and he looked so thin and frail and helpless I thought it better not to try to help him. A stranger would be less hurtful. Of course I’d seen him a lot over the years, first, I think, in the Guinea-pig. His style was a bit jerky and stiff, but it was his. He had good looks tho’ not feature by feature. Very athletic, I believe, and certainly went on going to the gym years after he should have stopped, ‘Keeping young’, you see. Eventually he had to have a hip replacement that went wrong. I had forgotten what a lot of good work he had done. He was an excellent actor of the second class.

Later on we saw something of him, partly because he’d had a house in Clapham, in Northbourne Rd., years before we moved there, and we moved there years before ‘gentrification.’ They were rather handsome early Victorian – still-a-bit Georgian houses. He also had a house on the front at Brighton, very pretty with a big bow-windowed drawing-room looking out over the sea. His wife, Carmen (whose name turns out to be ‘Sugars’ and died last year) was a distinguished looking woman – was she actually foreign or of foreign origin? I forget – but she was beautiful, composed, intelligent, and dignified and she needed her composure – Bobby turned gay, and I think there was quite a bit of rough trade. For instance after D died, Bobby was kind and had me over once or twice – he was a good cook – and one of the times, he told me he was just coming to the end of a bad time. He showed me some photos of a young – late 20s – working-class man, - was it in a gym? – with whom he had some time ago, fallen violently in love, and it had upset his life completely.

Then there was their daughter, who of course was plain, went in for an act of ‘teenage rebellion’, tho’ I seem to remember she was in her early twenties, striking enough to get on to the front pages. She was involved with a ridiculously unsuitable man. I forget the details, but they were holed up in the Brighton house, illegally? Drugs came into it somewhere, and the man was a black Jewish middle-aged saxophonist of Moroccan origin. Something like that.

Yes, Carmel needed her composure, but he was a dear gossipy creature, who talked as fast as John G, and I would imagine a good bit of juicy gossip died with him. He helped me get Bunny into Denvile Hall, only a minute part of the immense work he did for our charities.

Roy rang me. He’d heard someone in a talk on rugger say, ‘That’s an imponderable.’

Presenter: Can you tell me what it could be?

Interviewee: (coldy) ‘No, it’s an imponderable.’

Also he has a cliché check on his word processor. I wonder who decides what clichés are to be checked. One man’s cliché….

Thursday May 25 1995

A footballer who ‘headbutted’ another footballer on the football field, has just been sentenced to three months in jail. It seems this is the first time a footballer has been sent to jail for an offence committed during a game. He has had three previous convictions.

The good thing is that he is quite famous, and was a member of the winning side for some football club in the match last Saturday. That is a real step forward. What a crew.

Friday May 26 1995

Queen Mary’s birthday, isn’t it? Can anybody’s head be as full of useless or any rate, random facts as mine?

Rang to say to Sharron that we were having Salad Nicoise tomorrow. Cheap, you see.

In the p.m. to see another new Johnny Depp film. ‘Ed Wood’, black and white, about the world’s worst director, who was also a transsexual. Curiously moving and touching and casting a spell. Perhaps it would affect an actor more than the general public. Johnny Depp was quite extraordinary. I said I could hardly recognise him in the trailer, - I could hardly recognise him in the whole film. Martin Landou, who won the best supporting Oscar, for his Bela Lugosi, is very good, bit it’s a perfectly easy part along very well-worn lines. Johnny Depp’s is a really difficult creative original perf.

When I went down for my bath, a hedge sparrow was caught in the greenhouse, the first time it’s happened in the – how many years I’ve been here – fourteen or fifteen. It took me about ten minutes to get it free. Most of its time was blundering about the hanging shelf, from which happily all the cactuses had been taken down.

K. rang while I was at dinner, rather late, and said Can I come to tea about three to see Marjorie and Ernie? Quite forgot it was this w/e, but so did he. Tomorrow will be a strain.

Saturday May 27 1995 Sunday May 28 1995

It wasn’t quite as bad as I’d feared, because K. rang back to say ‘Change of plan’, as always with his parents, and would I come to the hotel instead of Elfort Rd. Well, I would because it was just off Ken. High St. Down Wright’s lane, and into Scarsdale Place, these pleasant addresses shrouded an outstandingly hideous building even for these days. A long rectangular black, rows of windows punctuated by yellow brick, dumped down regardless of scale or the slope of the ground. And on my way back, by the way. I saw that it looked out temptingly on the tube lines. Getting ready for Sharron and going all the way to Highbury and back, would have taken a v. big bite out of the afternoon, and the getting ready would have suffered. ‘Get there at 3.30, no 3.0.’

So I did some of the shopping in the a.m. and got there by three. Nobody in the hall, nobody in the lounge, nobody in the café Mozart… or a conference room (sic) entitled Jerome K Jerome – why? Did he live in a house on this site? or what? – I rang their room, no-one answered, and I went the rounds again. How typical of that sort of family that neither they nor he had said We will be in the… Rang their room again, and this time Ernie answered. So I went up. It was supposed to be a disabled room, but Ernie was coming towards me when I got out of the lift, from at least a hundred yards away. The door of the room opened by a card, of course, had a time-switch on it for a Zimmer or wheelchairs, I didn’t look in the b. room for aids.

Marjorie seems half the size again, one hand rather considerably collapsed and much more twisted. Started to chat. Five minutes later K, arrived. I was amused that he was dressed a bit more anarchically than lately, a black vest, with a big cheap tin medallion hanging down, thin jersey jacket over it, big heavy cotton-workers’ clogs – how they all love ugly things! – but carrying his red velvet smoking Jacket that only fits where in touches. This last touch made me wonder whether he was ‘going on’ somewhere after dinner with his parents. He was to a party, with Sonia, I suppose, tho’ her name was not, of course, mentioned. He was already impatient which I quite understand. The room was air-conditioned, that is to say, airless. The windows can never be opened, representing the childish American desire to ‘get their own way’ and reject the elements. Without ever, of course, counting the cost. So off we went to Café Mozart, where afternoon tea was ordered, after some bargaining talk from K. with the waiter and with Ernie (‘You don’t have to finish every dish, Dad!) Ernie ate four delicious-looking crustless sandwiches, all different, and then ordered two scones, jam and clotted cream. K. ordered a piece of chocolate gateau and later a jug of cream, two things I have seldom seen pass his lips.

He had of course told them little of the boot-sale, so that was a help. Of course, it is no effort to me to talk to people like Ernie and Marjorie and keep them entertained. Apart from them being my own generation, my ‘training’ in talking to boring members of Daddy’s church stands me in good stead. Jocular with a very very faint undertone of innuendo is the note to strike. Poor Marjorie can’t eat all sorts of things as her drugs have dried up her saliva and her tear ducts. I had a cappuccino, it’s a good thing I’d got time, as K brought my spag. bog. saucepan, and two letters for Sharron, and Ernie and Marjorie gave me a new rose that E. had bought at the Chelsea flower show, and a bottle of gin. Imagine going to the C.F.S. with M. in the state she’s in! The rose isn’t very nice, rather washy pinky yellow, with small rather mean-looking leaves, and a rather unroselike shape of flower, like an old rambler, with a few more petals. The label tells me it’s Horkness, and is a dwarf patio! Name Sweet Dreams. They seemed to think the title relevant, with a slight nudge and wink. I couldn’t guess why. Wildest dreams? Surely not.

K. was a bit tetchy as usual with his parents and bit once or twice, and kept looking away as if it were easier not to see them. How I remember the irritation! Well, I gave him a bit of help, a bit of a rest, for a couple of hours. When I said I had to go, Ernie took me upstairs to fetch ‘all’ my stuff, alone with him, he burst out – but quietly for he’s a little man – that it was all getting on top of him, and ‘I feel bad about shouting at her, which I do sometimes now. I have to get up four times in the night to put in her drops. Think what we could be doing these few days in London if… but many are worse off.’ I think I must investigate some carers’ association, if no one else does, or has. We left. Twenty yards from the hotel K gave a little jump, and said ‘Oh god, the boredom, the boredom. He walked me to the tube. I said ‘Try not to lose your temper.’ He went off to buy a card for his party tonight. Oh how wonderful not to have to go to a party, and worry about K.

Brought my ‘stuff’ back here and set out for Safeway’s, to assemble the components of salad Nicoise. Sharron arrived at seven-thirty, looking a bit tired. I fear that once more, she talked most of the time about him. To her it is all quite unresolved, as is shown by her keeping on bringing up the same complaints and criticisms. There were all the old ones – ‘You’ve never had it till you’ve had it black’, ‘I needed you on my way up, but now etc.’ and some new ones, ‘His music’s been no good these last two years’, is simply not true, but it would help her to think so, no doubt. And ‘I think he’s gay really’ is fascinating. I would have thought that fifty or so lovers, nine years of faithfulness accompanied by sex admitted to be excellent on both sides, followed by three more lovers in quick succession, was a fair evidence of heterosexuality, but to poor rejected S. it seems not. She says she wants to talk, ‘and so does he, he says, when I know it’ll only be lunch, and he’ll look at the time and say he’s got to go.’ She swings between him being so lovely and being so awful. She cannot accept the rejection. She says she wouldn’t take him back, but she wants him to ask and of course he won’t.

It’s wearisome trying to help the conversation within bounds. There is the usual undertone of me overestimating K. She didn’t like me saying ‘a touch of genius.’ What is about K?! I can only let her say so much.

Sunday May 28 1995

S. brought me some Brompton Stocks, which are scenting the whole flat.

Told Mary L. about yesterday, and poor Marjorie’s state. She suddenly took me up quite sharply in that way that has put the world against her, ‘Remember you mustn’t compare Mrs. Malpass’s rheumatism to Edna’s, Edna’s was osteo, Mrs. M’s is rheumatoid, they’re quite different. Extraordinary. She really is odd. To say that now, all these years later, when D. went round after two of the attacks in the fifties, when Edna couldn’t move – you don’t get that sort of attack with osteo – when I discussed it often with her in her twice-yearly visit to us, when she had to stop gold injections, and went on to some drugs identical with some prescribed for Marjorie, when her hands were so typical of rheumatoid because of the degeneration of that muscle on the side of the palm pulling fingers sideways, when I talked to at least half dozen different nurses about it in hospital and nursing home, when, finally I went with her to see a rheumatoid specialist, it is really odd. The sad part is that I, even I, can’t be bothered to argue with her. Poor dear, she has to be right even when she’s wrong.

That awful programme of the semi-educated, Mastermind, which I was forced to watch with Lalla, was privileged to have me watching it for nearly a minute so that I could see again that beautiful miniature version of the B.O.V., the Theatre Royal, Bury St. Edmund’s.

Whenever I hear a stream train, I still think of getting a smut in my eye, and having to have an unconsummated affair with Trevor Howard.

Monday May 29 1995

Slightly more interesting dream, dozing off after the papers. Princes Diana said goodbye to me outside the Arts Theatre, ‘I’m going away for good this time.’ Later the Queen Mother reproached me for lack of loyalty, and telling a kitchen maid. She was sweeping up snow at the time and there were frequent close-ups of her small beady eyes, possibly my fathers. More coherent dream than usual, in that each scene took place in the same background, and stayed in it.

Have stayed in my pyjamas without shaving. It’s warm and comfortable and lazy, and I never go out on Bank Holidays. Where would I go? People make much fuss about censorship. I can’t honestly say that I’ve been prevented seeing anything I really wanted to see or read. I would have censored the adoration of gangsters and criminals when it began in the forties. I think that’s why I’ve never taken to Humphrey Bogart, except in the ‘African Queen.’ For instance, I’ve never seen the Maltese Falcon or felt the smallest wish to, Rex Stout is about my only American author.

Tuesday May 30 1995

R rang to ask me to photo-copy that funny p.c. he sent me. Also told me Roy is seeing K. tomorrow night. I’m glad. I realised that R likes knowing and telling me first. Pah!

A day of pleasant ‘phone calls, Paul R rang to say that he’d had a good repeat cheque and wanted to take me out to dinner, I said I’d a date to do K’s garden but didn’t know when yet.

K. rang while I was sweeping the balcony. Delightfully vague, thought it was Wednesday. Rang him back to say Friday? lunch? Get there at eleven. Told him of Sharron’s evening. Warned him not to tell Sharron – to use my judgment with her.

Rang Sharron to remind her about the plants, and a jollyish talk with her friend, George, - girl.

I see there is a programme about Churchill’s funeral. Most interesting – I have no memory of his funeral – it made no impact on D and me at all.

Wednesday May 31 1995

Rang Marian about her new ‘soap opera’, Castles. Was able to tell her quite honestly that she made the most of it without making too much of it. Fairly trashy but might probably go.

Barry Norman at Cannes Film Festival. What a loathsome little man Ken Loach is! Dishonest to a degree, and it’s beginning to show in his face. And Terence Davies, what a sentimental self- conscious half educated little creep. What a pair to represent English films.

Thursday June 1 1995

Not as exhausting a day as I had feared, partly because no prospective lodgers rang!

In the p.m. to the film, which, this week, was Kiss of the Devil, - is that the title? It sounds made up – with Nicholas Cage and that Caruso boy from the TV series called NYPD. I watched it once for a little while, but the so-called realistic jiggling up and down of the camera, started to make me feel a bit sick, so I had to turn it off.

He is an unprepossessing youngish man, with bright red hair, and that freckled thin whitish skin that so often goes with it. But he has a speaking face and there is feeling there. And a sort of unattractive obstinacy. The film was fairly loathsome. I spent about three quarters of it with my eyes shut. Unlike so many people now, I have some concern for my artistic susceptibilities, and do not want them coarsened beyond a point. After, dear Janet took me and Frances, the ex-RSC wardrobe-mistress, to La Perla. She is a plump comfortable woman, crisp white hair, and a happy ready laugh. Her last words out of the taxi were ‘I love your stories.’ I sang for my free supper. Janet is suffering from her frozen shoulder. When I said ‘What did the doctor say?’ she said coldly, ‘Menopause.’

I had calves’ liver cut in beautiful thin slices, melting, and spinach.

Friday June 2 1995

Again a better day than I expected, because I couldn’t do all that much in K’s garden, and so didn’t get too tired. The raised bed at the end of the garden was rock-hard, and too hard to plant or re-plant. The soil may have been hard but his heart is soft…

He is desperately busy, and shouldn’t really have asked me round, I think. Six or seven projects, among them trivialities for free, like R’s tape for Central St. M’s fashion-show – not that K. described it like that – and on Sunday the Head of Granada Music is coming to stay, with his wife, this time. So K. had to dash up to Music House, hoping to get back to buy a camp-bed before the shops in H. Rd closed. Then there’s the food. And the cat had been in a fight. ‘I can’t go to the vet.’ But he cooked me lunch.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 134

June 2 1995 (cont) - July 27 1995.

Friday June 2 1995 (cont.)

We talked of Sharron of course, briefly. I told him of ‘You’ve never had it if haven’t had it black.’ He indignantly said he’d never said it or anything like it. He was also indignant at her saying his music had gone off in these last two years. She must stop all this, since it comes from her own disappointment and hurt. We lunched early, and I was away by one-thirty, so I could have a restful afternoon. But I think I shall most remember his describing apropos of him having some students down in the studio, - ‘Three of them seem to be quite talented, I must remember to steal their best bits’ – ‘I shall tell them that you put on a video and stare at it with your mouth open and not an idea in your head, and a completely empty mind, you start out on the wrong tack, and have to go back and even after quiet a time, and start all over again.’

So, in the p.m. to dinner with Paul R. He called round for me here after a visit to his sister at Putney, playing with the children all afternoon. How people can? We went to Café Pasta, on my suggestion. They’ve made a few changes, - a banquette at the back, on the street-level floor, a bit of redecoration, both an improvement, but also a nice black girl in smart black suit, standing in the doorway as a sort of maître d’. A mistake for such a simple one-course-if-you-like- restaurant. Apart from anything else, someone standing in the door puts shy people off.

We first talked of Nada. All is pretty well, though she is obviously more insecure than she appears. She is on the possessive side, and gets restive if he talks to another girl for too long. I asked what her background was, and was not surprised to find that she had a perhaps too happy childhood, ‘You mean she was rather spoiled?’ ‘Yes.’ It also turns out that that pretty flat, with its extra room unrented, belongs to her father.’ She pays him rent, ‘But of course, if she’s in real difficulty…’

I asked how his mother was. He told me she didn’t seem to listen anymore. Fancy.

And finally he got round to what the dinner was about. He’s going to a psycho-therapist for stress… it seems he developed a twitch. Well, he’s always been a bit frantic, ‘Keeping things going.’ ‘I must be constantly animated and wildly entertaining otherwise the whole of life may collapse.’ I don’t mean he said that, but the funny voices seldom stopped. I am amused that he presented me, as his supposed mentor, with a fait accompli, because he knows perfectly well that I would have advised him against it. I limited my disapproval to saying that he must give it up at once if he doesn’t like the therapist, or thinks he’s a phoney (as if they all weren’t.) At least he’s going to one recommended by his G.P.

We were together about three and a half hours, and I never saw a twitch. I do see that a twitch every four hours is an emergency.

We both had Salade Nicoise. When he ordered it, he rather bewildered the French (for once) waitress by pronouncing it Nikoeyes. Aren’t people odd. He’s been in Spain for months, speaks fluent Spanish and is 30, and yet goes pink over the menu. I gently corrected him when she’d gone as I thought it kinder not to let him go on. So sweet of him to take me out, dear silly little chap.

Saturday June 3 1995

Did I say I’d put the room in Loot again? One incomprehensible call on the machine. Then quite a sort of cheerful voice, yesterday, I think, ‘My name’s Raymond Worth.’ I said ‘What do you do?’ ‘Painter and decorator.’ ‘How old are you? ’ ‘45.’ ‘Oh, I’ve never had anyone as old as that. I generally have drama students or young actors.’ ‘I can act.’ Now that sounded at least cheerful. What turned up was a rather sad defeated figure, taking off a baseball-hat to reveal a bald head with long straggly wisps round it, and reeking of drink. I think we both knew at once it was pointless. I said I’d let him know, as I have half a dozen others to see. ‘And I’ll see if I can sleep in the library.’

Very short of money this week, and had to buy a bot. of wine for Sharron, as well as enough to eat. I had about £4. Bought four faggots in gravy for 85p, some cheese for £1.09 – cheese is so expensive now – and the cheapest bot., Hungarian Country Red, at £2.19 though Sharron had asked for white. The cheapest white was £2.29. I was short of that by 1p. Ah well, re-recording ‘Dance.’ As wonderful as ever.

Sunday June 4 1995

Set out for furthest Manor Park. I must say I do find North London more bleak than south or west. The three or four-lane crossroads with, for London, very wide pavements, make it all too open for me. I can never quite make up my mind whether it’s that or an actual difference in temperature. When I eventually clambered out of one of the five exits and started off for what proved to be ten minutes in the wrong direction, it was raining and the wind was strong and cold enough to make me put my sweater on. Of course, as my walk was twice the expected distance and the June sun came out, I was sweating through my shirt and had to take it off again.

However, I wasn’t sorry to have gone the wrong way. I suddenly realised that I was walking by the side of Finsbury Park. It is a fairly closely wooded part, and the more open verge on the road is most beautifully lush field growth, especially after the very wet Jan and Feb. Every buttercup was a daisy. Is that the quote? And I thought of those long-distant days when I used to go to the open-air Theatre to see the Saddlers Wells Opera Ballet. So strange to see Spectre de la Rose in daylight. I must say Green Lanes is, one way and another, pretty green for London, many mature trees. I had seen the two large reservoirs and so on, on the map – I remember thinking I’d look in this direction when I was moving, but got this before I could bother – I didn’t see the reservoirs themselves, but on the left, just before Sharron’s road, rose up a Norman castle disguised as a pumping station. It was curiously etiolated, so much taller and thinner than you might expect, as if it has been built for a planet with different gravity. The same stark-like look was to be seen in the Victorian house in Sharron’s road.

On the bell was a pink note, ‘Angus - this bell.’ I’ll keep it, and say When I had lunch with Dame Sharron… She gives me such a lovely welcome. The house is beautifully light, with a wide graceful staircase, a sizable roof-terrace opening off the kitchen, through elegant French doors. One of the rooms is really big. S’s is not, only about half the size of my bedroom, really poky.

The seats at the kitchen-table are those old wooden seats, with either-way backs like the old trams. She had, of course, laid the table attractively – oh, and did I say, none of the other residents were there – and, like all good hostesses, she gave me everything that I like, instead of, as has sometimes happened, everything they like. Avocado, - I had a full half, she only had a sliver, filling, it is, was that it? – scrambled egg and smoked salmon, my favorite, or at least one of my half-dozen favorite dishes. A salad, and some blue cheese, which she still seems to think is my favorite.

It was a funny lunch, because she drew me out about Newt, of all things, and only mentioned K once, obliquely. So, of course, with Newt the subject, it was laugher all the way. I had a quotation to use one way or another, ‘Pope says that every woman is a rake. I’d be prepared to say that every rake is at heart a woman.’ But it wasn’t needed. I left at 3.30, and waited for a bus with some rather louche teenage women – girls, for about twenty-five minutes.

I was much struck by the sight of the other three rooms. None of them were remotely tidy, none of the beds were made. ‘George’ has gone to South America for a month, but the bed was not covered and nothing put away out of the dust. The boy’s room would get a crack of laughter in a play or film – down to a broken rugger photo. I enjoyed my lunch.

Monday June 5 1995

A young artist was interviewed about painting the Queen. He was a pleasant sturdy person, not at all the type to flatter or join the Establishment. So I was all the more struck when he said, ‘People say she’s good at putting people at their ease, and she is. She was severe-looking at first, like she is in photos and then she was warm and witty, and like the sun coming out. I was glad I was seeing a side most people don’t see.’ Even than she would have to watch every word she said.

Now we’re seeing the inside of Addenbrooks, not that I ever saw the outside when I was at Cambridge. I was amazed at the Out Patients Head, who used to be a nurse, bustling about in true administrative fashion, and with all the air of dangerous innovation, suggesting chairs with high seats and arms for rheumatic patients. You mean they haven’t got them already, and haven’t for many many years, for old people if nothing else, and if not, why not?

When she realised I’d brought the red wine with the last of my money, she made me take it with me.

K’s life has always been right for his age. His thirties are so full or proliferating work and life.

Tuesday June 6 1995

In the p.m. to see Muriel’s Wedding. Enjoyed it just as much, and I noticed the cinema was fuller than most in the p.m. tho’ the film has been on for some weeks in a number of cinemas. And they laughed.

It’s chilly at night. I have shut the fanlights in sitting-room and kitchen again, tho’ generally I open them for the first burst (sic) of hot weather, and then leave them.

Yesterday brought the first broad beans and peas. So good still. In the market of course, not a sign of them in the supermarkets. I hate those perfect packs of things. There were two pretty leaves and a bit of cauliflower among the peas and beans. That’s the way of real things.

And talking of real things, I am now old enough to see that I enjoy my independence consciously. One day I will lose it.

Wednesday June 7 1995

Still chilly and dull. All windows closed. A dull day, but enlivened by Dance. Now on the Kindly Ones which has some of my favorite funny parts – Billson, for instance. And I am fond of his father not liking books that made him think, and in the end, neither people nor places ‘that produced this disturbing mental effect.’

Thursday June 8 1995

Still c and d, how I hate it when June can be so beautiful if the warmth goes with the fresh green.

The ‘phone bill arrived, £110. I will have to cut down my calls to Mary L - that’s what does it. So at last I haven’t the money to pay a bill. I’ll wait and see if anything comes in before the weekend, to shore up the £44 in the Halifax. Then I’ll have to ask him.

How interesting American notions of class are! Finely spun notions, capable of perceiving delicate distinctions imperceptible to the rest of us – always a sign of the flower of civilisation. A film biography of Steve McQueen revealed that he was considered too what we would call common for the role, - intellectual, Boston, chess-player, Phi Beta Kappa and Havard – so Sean Connery and Rock Hudson were approached….

Friday June 9 1995

Never got round last night to saying about the film. No memory of what it was called – how often titles these days are the opposite of the point of titles – unmemorable. Richard Dreyfuss, an artistic boy, started respectably, ended ridiculously.

Janet’s friend Frances, the wardrobe Mistress – her surname is Roe – is fairly hugely fat, and, as we were walking up Oxford St, Janet asking after her leg, Frances raised her very becoming black polka-dotted tent, to reveal a leg really badly bruised. A saucer-shaped purged patch on the knee, for instance, the result of a minor car crash. Plenty of room on the knee for a full-sized saucer. Janet told me R. Oliver, in his new book, claims to have directed Shirley Val. originally, tho’ he only directed a tour a while ago. She suggested I suggest to S. that he correct this. It turned out she hadn’t read the book, just a newspaper report. It all too likely, was the usual journalist error, and even if it wasn’t, it isn’t serious enough for S to do anything about it. Interesting example of Janet’s extra-reaction to S.

Someone said ‘If you’re not interested in sport, what about the Air Show in Kent.’ What, indeed? Laying waste another huge area of unspoilt country.

I had a cheque for each of us from the newish phonograph people for record royalties. £4 for me, £44 for D. Her cheque was made out to her and crossed, so the Halifax wouldn’t let me pay it in. How absurd when D has been dead for 18 years.

Saturday June 10 1995

Stayed in bed until 11.25, asleep most of the time. Went to the shops before lunch, with a few pennies over £2; bought two good punnets of straws in the market from that nice man for £1 and a big bottle of tonic for 79p.

Hazel rang this p.m. She’s busy tomorrow. Nothing special to say, but pleasant chat as ever.

Oh what a blessing a fast forward button is to me! I can’t be doing with the villain and things going laboriously wrong. I just like love and romance and friendship and things going right. How I’m with Jack Gatti who once said ‘I like a show that starts happily and goes on happily, and gets on happily, and gets happier and happier until it ends happy.’

Sunday June 11 1995

I heard a song thrush singing this morning. Grabbed the opera glasses and saw it sitting on next door’s TV arial. This has always been the perch of the blackbird nesting in the garden. I am so pleased that the song thrush has nested here as well. B-birds tend to outnumber s. thrushes, who tend to diminish in comparison, I can’t think why. So much for letting the garden become so lush.

I was amused by two ‘phone calls. Mary L said sharply, her usual, her favorite, adverb, ‘You divide people into two basic classes’ – I waited with baited breath for the secret of social philosophy. Perhaps even the universe, ‘conformists or rebels.’ There.

Rang Paul R. to find out how the first therapy session had gone. ‘Very well, but I don’t want to talk, as I’m hyper-ventilating and feeling queasy.’ Well, I never, so that’s what therapists do.

Later rang Roy and Marian, about the trailer of Castles, told her her nail-varnish was worth the money alone. Before I could stop myself, I had told her of my money worries, - the immediate ones, I mean – and she said ‘I think a little cheque is indicated – we’ve both got a lot of money at the moment.’ That quite transformed my evening. How lucky I am in my friends.

Monday June 12 1995

Cold. No other word for it. Lowering darkness yesterday and not much better today. To get my pension with a certain feeling of largesse, but only bought a trout for £1.83, cheaper now than two chops. So lovely to see sweet peas, and peas.

I always say thank you to the ticket inspector at the tube barrier, because I feel there should be a thank-you somewhere about, and it certainly won’t come from him.

Four telephone calls tonight. R. was a bit tired, but seems still to be paid by those people at Cambridge, who are perhaps as vague about sacking as they are about everything else. He spent yesterday p.m. doing the Central St. Martin’s tape at K’s. Talk to Sharron, who had had lunch with K, and ‘it was all right.’ Talk to Tim W, who is at a decisive moment in his house selling, complicated by not knowing where he’d stay before he bought what to live in, and a possible three month tour of the States in R and J, playing R., for a company called ACTER – he can’t remember what the acronym means, but it’s something to do with David Rintoul and Vivian Heilbron.

Finally long jolly talk to Justin about the movies.

It’s so cold, and I am determined not to turn on the fire or wear a coat.

Tuesday June 13 1995

I see in the paper that Paul McCartney and wife were at the Central St Martin’s Fashion Show because their daughter is a student there. The daughter had flown in two friends, ‘Top Models’ Naomi Campbell and Kate Moss, to wear her clothes and all the photographers left after their few minutes on the cat-walk. Ugh. Her clothes would always be noticed – she could afford a private show any time. I only hope she hasn’t harmed the chances of all the other students, whose only chance this show is. I have rarely heard of such a disgusting exhibition of poor little arrogant rich girl behavior.

I wonder if Paul McC. was thrilled through and through by K’s tape. Rang K to tell him. He was amused, told him Roy was giving me some money. ‘How much?’

Told him that some man, Sir Tim Scott?, who nearly got Manchester the Olympics, has almost definitely got them the Commonwealth Games in 2002. And he has certainly started organising the Millennium Celebration at Greenwich. ‘What’s the Millennium?’ So we cleared that up, and I think he was interested. Better get going on it now.

What is the name of those strange parti-coloured jackets people – most people – wear now in cotton or matt plastic? Perhaps they are anoraks or carcoats… Anyway, I saw a man of about my age, white hair, in such a coat, not in the usual hideous colours of turquoise shoulders and the rest purple, or vice versa, but white shoulders and scarlet body, giving the faint impression of a very unseasonal Santa.

Bought a cheap film, £1.99, to snap the studio for Hazel, also some anchovies among other shopping. Found I’d put the film on the kitchen-shelf, and started to open the anchovies pocket to spool them into the camera.

Wednesday June 14 1995

‘Dance’. Baby Wentworth and Pam Flitton, both driven, both Scorpio. So was Vivien L. Is this hindsight? I wouldn’t have thought he knew that much of V.L. when he began the book.

In the market asked of the vegetable stalls if they had broad beans, I’d seen some, looking rather abandoned, in a box between two stalls, which looked perfectly saleable to me. He gave them all to me, about three lbs, for fifty pence.

Photo in ‘Hello’ magazine of Duke of Kent’s son, Frederick Windsor. Comically like Queen Alexandra and her daughters. Altho’ apparently entirely masculine – you never know with Eton – he has exactly the long pale oval, the long straight nose, and his curly hair, flat on both sides and rather piled up, matches exactly woman’s hair in the 1880’s, perhaps their most characteristic period. I quite see the attraction of Hello, the photographs are all absolutely clear and absolutely unimaginative, so that you can see. No wonder the queen likes horses, - they have a stud-book, and bloodlines, and terrific family likenesses, too.

Thursday June 15 1995

The ITX correspondent called upon to comment on the Greek Earthquake, is named Louise Economopoulous. 1066 and all that? Professor ponderous political allegory?

To film in the evening, Janet said Janet Brown and Frances were coming too, and they might go out to dins after. Suddenly felt I couldn’t, despite rarely looking a gift horse in the mouth, and said to J, I couldn’t let her pay for me again. That was true but (a) I felt I’d sung for my supper well a fortnight ago and I may have infinite variety… (b) I didn’t think I could stand Janet Brown for a whole dinner again, (and I think she paid that other time, a further complication) because she is really dim, perfectly nice, but dim, and her idea of conversation is a slow insipid monologue.

Just as well, as I found the film a terrific bore and they all liked it. Written by and starring Steve Martin, it was based on Silas Marner, and I should have been warned. When eccentric Yank comic takes on serious writing, buckle on your anti-cliché armor and tear-mace. A procession of laden clichés and the usual rancid American sentimentality. Oh, dear, how is it these three women can’t tell? Is it Gabriel Byrne being Heathcliff – Rochester, tall, dark and boring, or what?

Friday June 16 1995

1.30a.m.

So tonight for the first time for – how long? – thirty? forty? ears, I have no gin and no whisky, nor will have for the rest of the weekend. No doubt I should have given up all drink long ago, but I haven’t, and won’t. Naturally I can’t sleep, and am watching ‘Rocco and his brothers’, a Visconti film I saw originally. It is dated in the Radio Times, 1960. I would have put it further back in the 50’s, but they’re usually accurate. And their blurb is accurate, too. It is described as ‘Soap frothed up to spurious significance.’ It is ostensibly part of the Italian post-war neo- realism, and has all the stigmata of that genre, but I remember calling it ‘a magazine story underneath.’ Of course we didn’t know the words ‘soap opera’ then.

I am more and more struck by the strange experience of constantly having the chance of seeing any film from one’s past. Is our generation the first to have this experience in all its completeness? After all, absolute surface naturalism was arrived at, after poor sound and static stagey films, in the middle-thirties with colour soon after, just as my own film-going began. I taped a no doubt inferior film called Men Are Not God, starring, among others, Gertrude Lawrence. Made in 1936, it was, I think one of the pot-boilers that she made during her bankruptcy – at any rate she takes second billing to – Miriam Hopkins, whose name fills the screen before the title. I haven’t watched it yet, but there it is, the first year D was on the stage. At the very least, - or most according to taste – you can fall in love with somebody who has been dead for forty years.

Yes, Visconti has always been a bit cheap.

Saturday June 17 1995

Another wretched dark day. The Stella Artois more or less rained off. Nobody rang. Have not heard from K. except when I rang him, for a fortnight. I don’t at all blame him, but I felt low and colourless. No drink?

Old Ken Russell film from 1988 ‘Lair of the White Worm’ – Bram Stoker, at a very distant remove, I dare say. Didn’t Snoo W. do something with it once? And where’s he, by the way, in K’s life? How wayward people are, Huge Grant much the same. What a silly little adolescent Ken Russell is, like a fifteen-year-old schoolboy, in unformed humor, ignorance and messiness.

Sunday June 18 1995

Such dreary people are successful nowadays. It’s always the unattractive one that comes out on top now. Think of tennis. I watched a bit of the Stella Artois tennis tournament, and thought, gracious since I last saw him a year ago, Pete Sampras has done nothing but play tennis.

Hazel rang as usual. I told her I had read Dance with such keen enjoyment. She said that she couldn’t take the last two vols. Well, of course, they take her beyond 1960… how extraordinary that she can say that, when she knows him. I suppose she can’t see the extraordinary achievement of encompassing more or less one’s whole life in the novel. After all, when he began on Dance, probably before or during the war, he could not possibly have foreseen the 60’s. Heavens, how much would he have dealt with it if he’d been Hazel…. Instead the book is a completely shaped whole.

K. rang. I never get used to clanking in the background, ‘I’m cooking’ with the ‘phone on his shoulder, I expect, clasped between ear and shoulder, in that way I’ve never managed. Dear talk. Two nice things. ‘Someone sent me a father’s card from Boo.’ I thought it was Sharron and thanked her for it. I felt a prat’ ‘And it was Sonia?’ ‘Yes. I know.’ I told him about the anchovies and the possible pictures. ‘It ought to be in the next two or three weeks.’ He said, through a laugh, ‘Well, I’ll see you before then.’ He has a great gift of friendship.

Monday June 19 1995

Forgot to say that I finally cleared up the dead choisya, broke it up and had a little bonfire. At one point threw in some leaves that I’d cut off the evergreen clematis. They went up like tinder, in flames ten feet high. It only lasted two or three minutes, and there was no worry. But someone have been in the Russian Church House Garden, for an American voice said, ‘Are you Ok?’ I expect he’d never seen a bonfire.

It always amuses me in ‘soaps’ that, when one of a married couple is killed off, the partner’s grief is expressed with a marked access of truth, even with a really bad actor, as the partner is probably going to be written out, too.

Goran Ivanisewich – is that how it’s spelt, I forget – has been taking classes at a Shepherd’s Bush tennis club. He said that young British players ‘have the technique and application, but perhaps not the same need to win.’ I daresay we invent most of the sports that are played all over the world. We invented them as games. We also invented sportsmanship, being good about just playing, and not caring whether we won or lost. I am afraid that this is a point that escapes the cross little millionaires of today.

Rang Mary L. to hear about her Ritz lunch. A disappointment, as she has little eye for detail, or interest in décor or clothes and not much in food. And her hosts had three sticks between them.

No strawberries in Safeway’s or the market. Ridiculous on June 19. Rang Sh.

Tuesday June 20 1995

Hot. I see there’s a therapist, Dr. Francis Doctor. Yank, of course. David Warner is now playing the sort of part I could play. When one thinks how bloody awkward and rude and uselessly ‘rebellious’ he used to be…

Another ‘soap’ observation, if a girl exits saying scornfully to a new boy in the serial, ‘I don’t want anything from you ever’ they’ll be snogging in an episode or two.

Finally got Tim W. Poor chap, everything’s gone. The sale of the house has fallen through, and he didn’t get the Romeo tour. Oh, actor’s lives! For instance, I had a cheque today, £54 from video sales of Portrait of a Lady. Must be twenty-five years ago.

I look at all these little wars all over the place,- people simply cannot give up the pleasure of war. You can tell that by the detailed description of war, and its tactics and its possibilities on the television and in the papers. They pretend not to, but they clearly love it. As for world wars, I really believe a great many people somehow bring them about by their lives being so culpably empty that it is a release when a war picks them up and throws them in to something that seems positive.

Wednesday June 21 1995

Hot. I wonder if there’s something neurotic about bronchitis and chestiness generally. (Well, there’s Mary L. for a start…) I am still reading the David Marr life of Patrick White. I must say, it is a portrait of an almost entirely unlikable selfish and tiresome man. The book itself is far too long and far too detailed, at least unless you can accept the claim, that White was a genius, which I am far from being able to do. Now P.W. was chesty to an intense degree, asthma, bronch., possible TB. But all manipulated to my eye, to escape or get his own way or whatever. Certainly no chosen friend of mine, as opposed to Mary and Prim, who came to me attached to D, has been chesty.

I see there was a jockey at Ascot called Allan Mackay. It’s an odd thought that he might be a cousin, tho’ I can’t quite, imagine any of the family I’ve seen, producing anyone small enough to be a jockey. I have to say yet again how amazed I am at programmes – so many of them – with people aching to find lost relatives and families. I must have dozens of first and second Mackay cousins, and very few months go by but I am thankful I have never met them and that that happy situation prevails. I wouldn’t mind on an idle afternoon looking at some photos and potted biogs, though even that would probably depress me, as the few I’ve actually met depressed me. So meet any more, no, thank you.

I wonder, have I recorded enough, how struck I have been that not a single person attempted to persuade me not to give up acting. Everyone clearly thought it a wise decision, perhaps overdue.

Cleared and weeded the paving by the greenhouse, half-an-hours kneeling, as much as I can manage nowadays. But my legs are decidedly better. I can now sometimes go upstairs without holding the stair-rail, let alone not do t. and carrying one. I wonder if the choisya died because the hole in the paving was only a hole and the roots could get no further. I hardly feel it would die so quicly tho’, from that cause.

Thursday June 22 1995

Apparently long, in both senses, and more interesting, theatrical dream, more interesting because it wasn’t an anxiety dream. We were, I think, coming back from success in rep – or perhaps it was in prospect. Cheltenham? except that we came back to Manchuria Rd. (To find the houses opposite, half a dozen, knocked down and road stretching away.) House newish, front a curious mess of tiles and other bits stuck on it in extravagant taste, and we’ll have to do something about it, as if we’d just brought it. D. rose at dawn, got herself up, in a long dress and beautiful stole and said as I woke, ‘It’s ten to five’, to be photo’d outside the house. Crowds watching. Later me turning intruders out of the house. Someone else in show being photo’d further down the road. No anxiety of impending perf., rather post-pef success.

One of the nice things about this dream was the really strong clear feeling of being in the bed- room with D.

This p.m. had no money for anything but a bit of dinner, so went at last to look at a couple of A. Powell’s flats in the ‘20s. First to Tavistock Sq. Number 33 is still there, unless it’s been renumbered. A handsome terrace of 1820-40s Georgian houses, central house pillared and pedimented. He had ‘three rooms and a yard’ in a deep area, tho’ with a wider yard at the front than usual. The rooms must be a bit lighter – and bigger that the average London house. And of course that type of house was not at all fashionable then, I think.

On the way back to Brunswick Square, walked back through the really outstandingly hideous B’wick flats, which now, I realise, make up one side of the old square. Saw Safeway’s ahead, the one I go to after the Renoir, and did the little bits of shopping I had to do. That, and going down into the square to find one-way traffic making it hideous, sapped my will, and didn’t go to find no.26, where he lived above E.M.Foster at one point.

Of course I met an Italian boy with an Italian guide, mouthing the mysterious words ‘Upper’s Wooburn Plaza.’

Paul R. eventually rang back. On ‘mild anti-depressants’. Ah well. Going to play Lysander at the Unicorn, after that awful cockney play at the Traverse. I don’t think Nada’s been any help to him through this perhaps rather imaginary trouble. I wish I weren’t so poor. I could take him on again, but I just can’t. It’s savage fact that giving help and advice has to be accompanied in one form or another. I can’t go and see the Dream anywhere nowadays. It’s a good many years since the lovers started to be played with a vulgar breath too course for the mechanicals.

R. rang at last, and we had a nice-ish chat, slightly soured for me by his again asking me to dinner at K’s! He said K had asked him to come and re-paper the spare room and paint the front of the house on Sat ‘and in this heat, being shut in the spare room…’ laughed R. I said when was I going to see him. He said, ‘Well, what are you doing on Saturday? Why don’t you come too?’ etc.

It’s no use, I dislike that from every point of view. It’s patronising for a start ‘I’m in closer touch with K.’ There’s also a faint tinge of the usual ‘K doesn’t appreciate you as I could’ stuff. I was certainly miffed again, one way and another. Really, he might share his house with K the way he goes on. Poor love. K will resolve it anyway.

Friday June 23 1995

Still hot. I am nearing the end of the P. White biography, and find him more and more tiresome. What a poor spoiled creature. I am still not at all attracted by any of the plots or extracts of the novels. The whole book is terribly parochial. The poor little author has no scale of values. Obscure, not to mention unknown, Australian authors, critics and ‘socialites,’ mingle with T.S. Eliot, Cyril Connelly etc. without any kind of evaluation. And gracious me, Barry Humphries has genius tied on to him, while Clive James is loosely sat on. They seem to me, in their different ways about the same weight. In fact, it is a provincial work, and as for P. White, good gracious, Ronnie Eaters was a lifelong friend and correspondent. Good heavens, that agent vulgarian.

In the p.m. to draw out my last £40 at last, and to do some v. necessary shopping. Then to new film ‘Clockwork Mice’ set in school for disturbed children and centering around a new young master arriving with ideals, it is just the sort of subject I like where intelligence and goodness can possibly prevail. Unfortunately not enough wisdom and detachment had been deployed, so that the over-long ‘happy’ ending had no resonance. More skill and thought was needed if it was to add up to more than the sum of its parts. Promising perf by Ruaidhri Conroy as the principal disturbed boy, partly redeemed by running. Can’t be more than 17, - he had something of the detachment the film needed. Of course he may come to nothing. Do you suppose his name is really Rory? Oh dear, the Gaelic-Celtic thing is so pointless. Canute isn’t in it. Only one man in the cinema beside me, first day.

Saturday June 24 1995

Watched a bit of the Guys and Dolls film. I still consider it the best stage musical I’ve ever seen. Each number is a real scene, ‘Sue me’, for instance. Wonderful exit-line. Gambler kisses Salvation Army girl. She slaps his face. He nearly smiles and makes for the door, ‘I’ll come back later’. Mathew 4 v 3. Don’t bother to look it up, it’s the bit about the other cheek.

Have now finished the P. White. Liked one quote, ‘Lots of people don’t recognise happiness when they see it, or if they do... they can’t face the... responsibilities.’ Now I think, I hope, I may claim to be able to recognise happiness, and certainly take responsibility. I certainly grappled D and K in their different ways, to my side with hoops of steel and kept them there. In fact, I think one of the odd things about me, - I mean, the quality that makes me odd to others, is that I do know when I am happy and when I’m not. I think, I hope, I am a good friend, but only to the right friend.

Beastly cold day. Put my vest back on, and shut the fanlight again. H.G. Wells appeared with a strong Yank accent in Superman. Really, who would be famous nowadays?

Saturday June 25 1995

Hot again. Stayed in and gardened and re-potted and read. Looking forward to tomorrow.

Monday June 26 1995

In Alan Sillitoe’s rather lugubrious autobiog, - Extracts in the Mail – he used a word I had never heard, ‘mangonels’. Now this is a rare experience for me, so I looked it up. It means ‘military engine for casting stones etc.’ He used it for knocking down slums.

To University Woman’s Club as usual to pick her up. Rather weak gin and t as usual, but long and well-iced so more acceptable in this weather. She gave me the cassettes of S. reading one of Tom’s novels, and the new film script. We went to the Italian restaurant. To my amazement she put a scarf on to go out, and when we found the rest. had tables on the pavement, I thought for a delicious moment that we might take one of them, but she said, ‘You don’t expect us to sit outside, do you?’ as if it were April, instead of a now hot, 75º June, not that I’d suggested it. We had the usual jolly evening, she is quick-witted and responsive to wit, and well read and my generation. I enjoy her company within limits very much, and I hope she enjoys mine. Oh, the little revelations people make about their lives without realising it. She ordered calves’ liver – ‘I can’t have it at home because it’s packed with cholesterol which Geoffrey mustn’t have.’ Imagine me denying D, or her denying herself, something because I couldn’t eat it. I was interested that there were two large slices, each six inches or so, and she ate the lot, more than I’ve seen her do before. I had the insalata de fruit di mare and very good, prawns and mussels and squid, and then poached salmon, now more or less at its best. Very hot, but all over by ten and home with whisky in the nude in no time.

1.30 a.m. No, not suffering from shellfish poisoning. As I’d had prawns for lunch, I must see what they do for my wanking powers. Oysters is amorous? I hope I’m not in for bouts of insomnia. Last night had bacon on toast at four a.m. Tonight, after sitting over the TV and three whiskies, I’m still completely awake. I must say it was satisfying this morning paying the ‘phone bill and electric bill, £150 odd.

Still awake at 4.0. In the tunnels under the road at Hyde Park Corner, one of the permanent enamel direction labels says Apsley Way, the other Aspley Way.

Tuesday June 27 1995

In the end went back to bed after more TV but no food this time. Thank goodness, and dozed off at about six, woke again at ten, and feel perfectly ordinary. Odd. I hope Mary L never finds out that I sat naked in the drawing-room for hours and was still hot.

A creature called Redwood has challenged for the leadership of the Conservative party. Quite repellently robotic smug, and much too decided about too many things too soon. Re-reading Last Years Of A Rebel (Edith Sitwell, most relevant, ‘Politicians! Where do they get their faces from?’ What nasty little people.)

To Soho to try and find something cheap, and found raspberries for £1.50 for two large punnets. One small punnet is £1.99 in Safeway, and my market has no rasps – or straws in June! – at any prices and no asparagus, yet. Why not? Is it the ghastly customers who only want turnips? I must go to Soho more often, although it’s a bit further, it’s no more expensive with my free travel, and much cheaper and better when I get there. I gave myself a little treat from Roy’s cheque, and bought a John Dory, £5.20 from the real fishmongers. They had scallops shells in sale, 20p each, memo for bath-room.

Norwegian tennis player in first round, eliminated, called Ruud.

This stupid politics thing is really dangerous. A vacuum into which what? may rush.

K. rang. Full of work and rather dauntingly profitable work if he gets it. So won’t see him for another week. Very loving.

‘Only one bit of news – Sonia and I are looking for a separation.’

‘Have you got a good solicitor?’

The only time we’ve talked about her!

Wednesday June 28 1995

Very hot. Bad night. Cried off darling Sh.

Thursday June 29 1995

Repellently hot. Went to Oxford St. to pay Selfr. bill, so as to do two nasty things in one.

Reading Madame Bovary, for the first time in twenty? years. I read the first eighty pages with great admiration, but, when Emma’s internal disaffection began to be detailed, I put it down. I may have been tired, certainly this heat – it’s 86º today, if not more – makes me feel quite light- headed, and good for nothing. I would dread working, if I still were. Every now and again I have real perceptions of old age.

I don’t watch Wimbledon as I used to – they’re all so dull now, except André Agassi. He’s the only one you can tell from a distance. This time he came as a pirate, earrings, a white scarf tied on his head, pirate fashion, all white otherwise, with his funny little pigeon toed walk, and his quickness and warmth, on and off. His is so quick in his reactions and funny. He said of Greg Rusedski, the Canadian who’s now ‘English’, ‘He’s learning the language fast, saying things like ‘brilliant’ and ‘lovely’ Do you know, I hadn’t realised till then, that they are two words that no American would use as we do.

He wears white not only because he was asked to, but because I’m sure he can see how it goes with grass. He is now more completely in white than any of them, after all that fuss. Oh if only some else had a bit of personality.

R rang and we arranged for him to come round on Sunday - and then he did it again! He told me that K. said the painting was now to be next Sunday, so R said ‘Why don’t you come over to dinner, too?’ I wrote to K saying what if it were the other way round, and R said ‘I’m going to Angus’s for dinner, why don’t you come, too?’ R is so sensitive about serial mistakes, I don’t know how to go about stopping him, as yet.

Here we are at the peak of the strawberry season, and there were no straws in the market or Safeway’s. S had raspberries at £1.99 a punnet!! Slightly smaller punnets with about half a pound in each, were two for £1 in the market.

Friday June 30 1995

Terribly hot. Went out because I feel I’ll sleep even worse if I do nothing but sit, meaning to go to new film in Tott. C. Rd, and to get money out of Halifax. The H. proved to be right up by Warren St. station, and by the time I’d walked that far past the cinema I couldn’t face walking back. Other people’s shirts don’t get black with sweat. So came home, bathed and stripped.

Saturday July 1 1995

I have never travelled and don’t intend to start now. But I must say I can see no difference between myself and the people who have traveled. I see no ‘broadening of the mind’, not even any actual knowledge of the arts and so on, no extra talent at cooking. Not to mention languages. For instance, S is cultivated, speaks French fairly fluently, has taste of various sorts, but it seems to me, would have such qualities anyway.

Janet rang and asked to come to Tea. The bell is out of order, so I said four exactly. Went out at three-thirty-five to get some milk, and met J. wandering along the road eating a raspberry ice. She also brought with her two custard tarts, she’s quite sure she doesn’t eat much. She said ‘No milk, please.’

We had a good chat.

Sunday July 2 1995

Much cooler, thank goodness, and later on it poured. At last was able to put the palms outside. R. did one of his laughs at me carrying them onto the balcony. So odd, as if it was either an impossibly eccentric act, or an absurdly self-indulgent one, instead of an absolutely necessary and rather laborious exercise. Odd.

So like a certain sort of man, he has never described his two employers, and probably found me strange in wanting such descriptions. The creative one is Jerry Mead, 47ish, ponytail, 3 times divorced, medium height. Steven Cannon is an Essex man, fat graphic designer with four daughters, whom, he thinks, will be got rid of.

He moves into the house on July 22. Fancy.

We had a delightful evening, he was more forthcoming than usual. Apologised for poor bottle of wine, poor love. It was red, after me saying it was Salad Nicoise. Straws. Left a bit late for a Sunday, twenty to twelve.

Sleepless again, and a snack at half past two.

Monday July 3 1995

Strange happening. Came into the sitting-room to find a message on the machine. Played it back to find a long – getting on for a minute – message in rapid and fluid Russian, I think. It might be some other central European language. A woman who obviously paid no attention to or had no understanding of, my message, so there was no English overture. I have to say my impression was that it was not a typical message. I kept the tape. I wonder what if anything, I should do about it. After all, she might be leaving a message for her only love, whose number she has laboriously and finally got hold of – albeit wrong. Perhaps that tsarist at the corner might translate it for me.

Forgot to record that last week, in one of the shopping ‘malls’, I saw a little girl, two or three, run full tilt into a shop-window. She hit her forehead on the glass with a really sickening thump. The window was plain glass to the floor. She screamed. I hope her mother took her for a check- up. Children’s heads are pretty delicate still. The incident will probably not be remembered by the child, but I wonder if there’ll be an adverse reaction to glass in later life… or shopping malls.

Tuesday July 4 1995

Sharron coming round tonight, I rang K. to ask whether I should tell her about the separation. ‘Of course.’ ‘How are you?’ ‘Absolutely knackered.’ He’s on a big big job, ‘I’m writing some amazing music.’ To my utter amazement, he went on, ‘And if it comes off, there’ll be enough money to do your bathroom.’ I didn’t think it was in his mind at all. There’s nobody like him.

Sharron was a little tanned, looking lovely. The weekend with Simon had been a great success. She speaks so softly I can’t be quite sure I heard all the details properly, but I am sure that they went to Studland Bay in what I take to be a Dormoblie, - ‘We took a tent, but didn’t use it.’ - they bathed and sunbathed, - ‘It was really good.’ That particular phrase is a real compliment from this generation. She told me quite a lot of two other men, the one I playfully romanced about when she moved to the studio. He asked her to help him with something for someone, a brass Irish harp, - well, that’s what she told me – and she said she thought it mightn’t work because… and he said she might be right, - and went away on three weeks’ holiday without telling her, leaving her to face the client.

She also told me a bit more about the man in her flat. Alex Leith, a free lance journalist, who seems to be doing quite well. I still think the way she talks about him, means that she is at least interested in him.

She is such fun to talk to, so responsive, and funny and amused. She talked over dinner of her money worries and how she can make more money. I felt so helpless, and unable to give her any useful advice at all.

She laughed most when I remembered what D. used to say, sitting on the potty, rather drunk, peeing interminably in the middle of the night, ‘Finish bright lady, for we are for the dark.’

I’d never thought before to look it up. It suddenly struck me it wasn’t quite the right quote, and it isn’t. ‘Finish, good lady: the bright day is done, and we are for the dark.’

S. sent me two books, C. Redgrave’s book about M. Redgrave and the new biography of Mrs. Jordan by Claire Tomali. Very different weights, but both I wanted badly, clever old S. Where is he? Is he in London? Answer machine says middle of July. Has little conception of ringing to say I’m back and this is what I’ve been doing!

C. Redgrave is just as unappealing a character as I imagined, if his book is to be believed, but not quite what I imagined. I didn’t realise he was a tortured soul who could never live up to his father. Fancy.

Wednesday July 5 1995

Too hot and humid for me. Meant to go to the pictures. Only shopped and sat.

Rang Mary L back from Gabrielle Blunt. It had gone well. Went to ‘Muriel’s Wedding’ and enjoyed it. Good. In Tunbridge Wells, good gracious.

Tired.

Thursday July 6 1995

The same. I was just nodding off over the papers when a van parked outside the house opposite, being renovated, and started making a frightful pneumatic drill like row. It was a drains firm. The van was there most of the morning and drove me into the drawing-room. I am indeed lucky to have three doors to shut between me and the street. They had a drain firm pumping away a few weeks ago. What can be wrong? Body chunks?

On some soap called Emmerdale, there’s Ronnie Magill proposing at 70 and wedding to a dear old thing and going off into the country sunset. Ronnie Magill !! the waspishest old queen in the profession.

R. rang, and the ‘phone fell of the wall. His previous calls had been to K. ‘monosyllabic and telling me to tell you the w/e was off.’ – and to another friend who said, ‘I can’t talk, I’ve got diarrhea.’ So for once his laughter was justified.

Friday July 7 1995

Another theatre dream combined with the Army. Ed Hardwicke, and I making up, but no perf. Went back to lock up and found someone had piled loose earth all over our make-up places, which were more or less on the street. Back in the barrack-room, with that vivid sense of just that bed sized space to oneself, going to bed very late after a journey, someone comes in say, ‘You’ve got to audition twice.’ ‘When?’ ‘7.0 a.m. tomorrow.’ To take over one of leads. Just as boring as usual, but faintly interesting to me, for the odd way one pulls things arbitrarily out of the past. There was E H quite vividly from the d-room in 1961 or whatever, putting a wig on, and the barrack-room at Belfast, both recalled more realistically than I could consciously.

Para in one of the papers that Jane Horrocks is to play Doll Trustee in Henry IV. Such is the state of the theatre and the inaccuracy of journalists and newspapers, that I can’t decide whether Trustee is an absurd misheard misprint for Tearsheat, or weather some idiotic director has had an idea. Jane Horrocks is such a coarse actress she’s right for both.

This p.m. to film ‘Miami Rhapsody’ not half bad. It was rather grudgingly compared to Woody Allen, to me a great compliment. The men in it were wonderfully shallow. The script by director, David Frankel, was well above average. Jewish again, you see. Sarah Jane Parker excellent. I do wish the otherwise excellent Gate cinema would close the exit door and curtains before the main film. One has to sit thro’ the adverts and the trailers, with a great band daylight into the cinema, and even worse, each car that passes, flashes an image on the left-hand wall.

The last two or three days, a song thrush has been singing on the trellis on the balcony, no doubt the same one I saw on the TV aerial. Quite beautiful song, next best to nightingales, and I am sure, due to my encouragement of undergrowth, nesting in the garden.

Saturday July 8 1995

At 5.15 there were only two punnets of straws left in Safeway at £1.69 each, and there had obviously not been a big main show at cut price as there should be at this time of year. In the market I got 4 punnets of the same size for 99p the lot. And those smaller ones with more taste, of course they aren’t all the same size and shape – oh, America. I bought one lot of peas from Safeway a few weeks ago, a very small-podded variety, which didn’t taste right and were, of course, much more expensive. In the markets, 21lbs for 80p. Endless deep-freezes in S’s full of frozen peas, making the fresh ones more expensive. Oh, America again.

I hate all these hygienic little packs of everything, so often tasting of nothing. I like the peas heaped into a bag by hand with a couple of beech leaves and a bit of grass.

Talking of which, no English ‘grass’ yet in either, at any price.

Sunday July 9 1995

Have started on Claire Tomalin’s Mrs. Jordon. Very well done so far, and shows a real understanding of the theatre and actors. Yes, I know she’s Michael Frayn’s wife, but that means nothing. When I think of some of the theatre wives… someone wrote in 1785, that ‘she had more genius in her little finger than Miss Brunton in her whole body.’ And I thought Shaw thought of it for himself… Well, perhaps he did. I doubt if he’d read that letter – I don’t think he’d read many theatre biogs. – you never know with him, of course.

Hideously hot, sat on two towels, naked, sweated and read in equal quantities.

Monday July 10 1995

Still terribly hot and humid, sitting here naked, sweating, all windows and doors open. Airless, no relief, at ten past eleven. Had to go put to pay Alliance monthly ins. Premium of £28.51, so went across the road in Fulham to see silly film Congo.

It is a fairly poor example of a very clear genre, the jungle pictures, and therefore enjoyable by me on a very hot afternoon, sitting down in air-conditioning. Interesting that the rigid convention of this sort of film endures – the heroine going to look for her lost fiancé, who, you know, will be found dead so that she can ‘romance’ with the hero she spends the first half of the film acrimoniously quarrelling with. And then there are the frightened porters dropping their packs, and running away, ‘Mountain God still angry, Bwana.’

The new superman series has quite good dialogue. Heroine: (to lady psychiatrist) ‘Just that the last psychiatrist I saw had a double made of me and tried to kill me.’ L.P. (earnestly) ‘And how did that make you feel?’ I suppose there are enough sensible Americans to laugh at it. Also saw the trailer for Batman Forever. How thread bare and shallow American fantasies and legends and fairy stories are – ‘Oz’, ‘Lil Abner’ and so on – like Chris O’Donnell’s voice.

A girl was interviewed on the radio about the play at The Drill Hall – a largely gay venue – based vaguely on Noël, called ‘Venom’. She said the Noël C character was malicious and two faced etc. etc., but happily had the grace to say that Noël was a very nice man really. She’s playing – ‘well, it seems he had a sidekick called Gertrude Lawrence.

Tuesday July 11 1995

Hideously hot. I’m dreading tomorrow, getting the house ready for Mary.

How suitable that a ridiculously tasteless prog. like Come Dancing should come from Bournemouth. The B’mouth international Centre. Its achievement is to be an even more hideous building than the Pavilion. I sometimes think I was at the opening of the Pavilion, was I? I could have been as far as dates are concerned, and Daddy was Major’s Chaplain, in the ‘30s, sometime. But really of no interest. A Lithuanian couple taking part. Gracious, not only democracy but Come Dancing, too.

Wednesday July 12 1995

Thank goodness, not so desperate, 77º and a breeze. Sitting quietly on the sofa, naked again, on the same towel, having seen Mary off. She was not tiresome at all, thanked me many times for the delicious lunch, - and I think meant it – tho’ it was only an ordinary salad (of course, where she lives, it is quite hard to find all sorts of quite ordinary things.) She brought back some books, two new detective stories for me to keep, and as she usually keeps a big ‘hard-back’ – another blessing from America, meaning a book – for a year, they come to me quite fresh.

When I met her at the station for the first time for six? months, she seemed smaller, That’s how she’s going to be – as we walked along slowly, I noticed she’d fallen in round the back of her neck. I don’t quite understand why old people get thin – I suppose they can’t support a lot of flesh for lack of muscle, blood and energy. Of course, in her case, it may be that she eats too little. She is a vegetarian, of course, and as I know from doing her shopping, there is comparatively little choice near her. I sometimes wonder how many vegetarians know how to make up a properly balanced diet.

By happy chance, a fifteen-page letter from S. arrived this morning, A4 typed, so long. Extracts from this occupied coffee time, when I was starting to run out of non-inflammatory conversation. Saw her off at the station and felt again the pathos of how many people she must have alienated in her career.

S’s letter is the usual dazzle of wit and insight and frightening schedules. He came back for two days from the US, sixteen hours each way. At other points, I think he has been to San Francisco to dub that cartoon, to France to dub that awful Tahiti film, and to New York, twice, to cast the Il Tritico, that he’s doing for that opera festival. All this from the middle of Ace Ventura II. Still going on six weeks over schedule. He now says all I’ve ever felt about films. It seems there actually ‘is no such thing, they tell me; even my American agent tells me, - as a stop date on an American movie. In theory, you are obliged to keep the rest of your life from the day you start work on a movie devoid of plans.’ Most loving letter. Should be back on my birthday, but will have almost no break before the Opera. Rang Roy and Marian, holiday a great success, and I rang again today to read him parts of S’s letter.

I was touched that woman up the road, whose husband, an ex-clergyman, ran off with a bimbo, suddenly gave me a bunch of flowers she’d brought back from the allotment. Nasturtiums rue, that tiny, chrysanth – what is it called? I had it here once. It looks so pretty.

John Nick rang to arrange lunch. It seems the Coli. is considering seriously going to a newly built theatre instead of refurbishing the Coli. as being a better use of the lottery money etc. I see that the Coli. cannot be extended sideways or backwards, but that must be set against acoustics which so many – most - modern buildings never achieve.

K. rang. Oh, he did sound tired. ‘I’ve finished the first one.’ Still hasn’t said what it is. ‘Now it’s your birthday on Saturday, isn’t it? I’ve kept it free, it’s all on, except I’m seeing them tomorrow. They like the first one so much, I’ve got to talk to them about money.’ However, we will meet sometime. He’s been up several nights, he also said that R was trying horn in again on the weekend, isn’t that odd?

Dead on cue, R. rang, and it was true. I said I was going to K’s for my B’day. A bit later, he said casually, ‘What are you doing with K? Lunch?’ This time I made it perfectly clear I was spending my b’day alone with K. I wonder if this is the first little ripple of division from R. giving up the business.

Thursday July 13 1995

Dream this a.m. was about K. Now that’s an improvement. His house dark, with rooms opening out at each other, and wrought iron screens on the window. Took me into a room away from quite a lot of other people and said ‘I’ve done a bad thing.’ I gave him a hug and he said ‘I’ve slept with Sonia’s P.A. – only once.’

He went out and came back with a lot of people. Then four of them, middle-aged ladies with hats and obviously back from the shops, sitting round a tea-table laid with plates of biscuits with a little cake of soap on each like canapés. K lay down in front of the fire like a dog – silent. I said ‘Kevin’ and started polite conversation by saying to the ladies. ‘Isn’t everything expensive?’

Now there’s nothing interesting about this dream, either, except that it quite ignores the rule that dreams are only symbolic. It is simply a very slightly varied version of actual events. K. confessing to his affair, and K refusing to entertain his parents. K. was exactly like himself in the dream and was not a symbol for somebody else, so Freud was wrong.

Justin rang and as well as our usual chat about films, said that a friend of his wanted a room for a week, or so… yes, anything for a bit of money. Not nearly so hot, thank goodness.

K. didn’t ring, so I suppose it’s still undecided. I’m easy, as long as I see him sometime.

Friday July 14 1995

K rang and said shall I come to you because of R being here and I said he couldn’t come here because I hadn’t any money to buy dinner and he did a real intake of breath. I felt that badly that I hadn’t done better with what little I have.

No drink.

Saturday July 15 1995

69. Cleaned the study properly, did a big washing-up and cleaned the oven. I must say the new oven-cleaning spray, like the bath one, really works, unlike any I’ve had before. You ‘Just spray it on.’ And amazingly ‘you just wipe the dirt and grease off.’

Took my camera, my diary, and S’s letter. He met me in the hall, and I had a good look at him to see he was all right after such hard work. He looked quite fresh, thank goodness. We went round the garden, which was looking good. There had been a good downpour, certainly, but he has obviously been watering. He always said he wanted to walk from the studio into the garden. Watering must be a lovely soothing break in a difficult composition.

I went down to the studio, and laughed at having taken my camera. It was taken completely to pieces. R was building a framework rather like a dressing-table shelf in a dressing-room, so that all the equipment can be built in.

Back in the drawing-room, I was waited on hand and foot and large g&ts being thrust into my willing hand. R. was down in the studio for long enough for me to say to K. anything I didn’t want R to hear. R sometimes seems unable to realise that we might have things to say to one another that we didn’t want him to hear.

K announced that dinner was trout and strawberries. Perfect. He went off to the kitchen. Suddenly he and R came back smiling like two little boys caught doing something naughty. R gave me a card of a pussy with star-shapes cut into the surrounding for the light to shine through. I’m glad he didn’t attempt a present – he can’t have any money at the moment. I am always badly affected by pathetic presents – they move me intolerably. Like Ada one Christmas having to say there was a crack in whatever-it-was and then bursting into tears. I suppose she was out of work in the depression. K put a huge bottle of gin into my arms wrapped in a rather beautiful piece of that stretchy crinkly paper, beautiful because it was jet-black. ‘There’s something in there to keep you going for a while, and I found there was an elastic band round the bottle with £100 tucked into it. The rest of the evening was golden. Dinner was delicious, fresh peas, cauliflower cheese, and especially good roast potatoes. Two bottles Pouilly Fuissè which we finished. This may have been responsible for a very funny argument that developed between him and R about that tennis-player who stamped out of Wimbledon. K had seen the queried points and knew the man was right. No amount of emollient suggestions that you can’t tell from the TV whether or not a ball is out, dented his conviction that the judge was prejudiced, corrupt, and that R and I were pretty corrupt too. He is funny when he’s sure everyone and everything is rotten. He asked if I wanted to stay the night, but I thought it more restful to go home, and get ready for Warren. One of the loveliest birthdays I’ve ever had.

Sunday July 16 1995

Warren rang to say he would be arriving at seven instead of four. Considerate. Good-mannered reliable voice. In fact he didn’t get here until seven-forty-five, doesn’t know London at all well, and was driving. A tiny red car, smaller than a mini, and it’s a Rover. Of course he didn’t know I’d had to sit in the bedroom window listening for the bell and missing my bath for the second night running. And he did apologise.

Shortish, thickset, very muscular arms, t-Shirt, hair very short, like André Agassi without the star quality. A ready smile, Justin says he want a girl-friend, and I don’t think his appearance is against him.

He ‘went for a walk around the place,’ and came in for a chat later on. Does everyone get the story of someone’s life? I wonder. Despite his physique, he was bullied badly at school – ‘I’ve never got over it, I still look round and flinch at a quick movement’. He’s 24, and looks 30, balding as well as cropped. Sister, Hazel 22, brother 18. His mother has four horses, and bro and sis both ride competitively. He gave up riding at 8. He has suffered from ‘Clinical depression’ twice. Hm. His mother? ‘Permanently knackered’. Had such a bad car accident at 20, she had to wear a mask for a year and lost an eye. One finger badly injured by one of the horses stepping on it. ‘I think she’s accident prone.’ So do I.

Monday July 7 1995

Last night we had a brief chat about his journey to work – the office is in Union Street in Waterloo. He’d gone to it before from Blackfriars, so I said Go from there this time. He doesn’t know Waterloo station at all. How odd as his family only live in Henley, and it has so many confusing exits, which might make him late. We agreed nine would give him plenty of time. He left at ten past eight!

He came in tonight while I was at last in the bath, and said he was going to Tufnell Park to see some friends. ‘I’ll be pretty late, I expect.’ Knocked at the drawing room door just as I was about to watch a possibly good Welsh play at eleven fifteen. Never thought to tape it as I expected him to go. Had to offer him a drink. ‘Is there any of that wine on offer?’ He’d looked at dear John N’s wine, which arrived today. As smooth as silk, all red again.

Very amusing, I idly said how ridiculous and boring motor racing was, not a judgment likely to be challenged, indeed sharply endorsed by everyone I know. Before I knew where I was, I heard, in my own drawing-room, that motor-racing required just as much talent and skill as painting a poem or composing a piece of music. Fancy.

Tuesday July 18 1995

Forgot to record his name is Detsing. Hungarian three or four generations back. His appearance does argue with such ancestry.

I see that dark boy who fools about is leaving Take That to ‘go solo.’ Interesting. I wish I’d noticed before, so that it wouldn’t look like hindsight, that I picked him out as the one that might go to the bad in some way. Drunk driving, drugs, awful songs at grubby gigs, Eastern philosophies…

Warren came in saying he wouldn’t go on the tube again in rush hour. Obviously vital to office and prospective flat is cheap parking. He went off to see the threesome in Streatham he’s going to share with somewhere else. One of them is called Sharron, and is a managing engineer on some big site. He had forgotten his key, and I gave him mine telling him to put it back through the letter-box. So I have in my house one of those selfish people who insist on using their cars and stuff everyone else. What delicate flowers they all are!

Programme about dyslexia. I cannot bring myself to believe it is anything but an excuse for lack of application and intellect. I suppose it was finding Sue Hampshire such a silly girl at that first meeting has prejudiced me.

Wednesday July 19 1995

Hideously hot and humid, can do nothing and think of nothing. Warren decided to have an early night – ten o’clock. 24 and alone in London for the first time, I think.

Still 70º at 12.30. He never eats here. Good!

Thursday July 20 1995

Even worse, worse, yet, 90º today here in London.

Warren came back at 6.30, and stood in his underpants, - oh dear, his physical youth will be short – and said he would probably have another early night. Asked me about the corner shops, refused H’smith, and I got out of the d-room and kitchen in a hurry, half an hour early, when he called up that he was going to eat out in H’smith. A relief. Also said he was off to his Aunt’s at Highgate to house-sit, tomorrow. So he hasn’t prepared, or eaten a single meal while he’s been here. I think he’s a fairly helpless old-fashioned male, leaves lights on, and yesterday went to shit and was knocked back by the heater being on in the loo with the temp at 80 something. He certainly needs a woman to look after him. Poor woman.

The new Jubilee line rolls along, an odd thought that I will probably never go on it, partly because it won’t be running till 1998, and partly because I can’t think of a single station I could have a reason for going to.

The dear old aspidistra, which I brought to put on the tall stand in the window at M. Rd. because there still were a few asps. in the window from originally, has always survived, but never specially flourished. Each year it put up four or five leaves – this year at least eight without any of the old leaves withering. So that now, after thirty? years, it looks more full and flourishing than it ever has.

Every day Warren has come in and up to say hello, about seven, and said ‘I’m making a cup of tea,- do you want one?’ So odd, since I always have my g&t in my hand, and he seems to have total confidence that anyone would want a cup of tea at the extraordinary hour of seven. The kindness, of course and no doubt the limit of his domestic experience, but odd.

Friday July 21 1995

Just the same, but at least I’m alone again. Warren came up at seven-forty five a.m. – he always assumes I’ll be up – to say goodbye. He remembered the key, but I didn’t realise till he’d gone that there was a Chubb-like key also on the ring. In the bathroom he’d left two nearly full bottles of Neutralia Shower Gel and Shampoo. In the bedroom, the lead and two-pronged plug of something or other – his razor, and a five pence piece on the floor, and a half-full pack of Dunhill after-shave on the mantelpiece. I’m afraid modern youth does that – he has probably not forgotten them at all.

He hasn’t eaten here at all. Last night went out to eat in H’smith and was in bed again by ten. Judging by his a.m. personality, he’s a lark not an owl. I like him but I don’t think he’d at all suit me as a perm. lodger.

Have not gone out at all today, so can wear nothing all day, instead of having to dress up for meeting him downstairs. It is supposed to become fresher this evening – I hope so. I can do nothing in this humidity.

Have now finished my re-reading of ‘Mme. Bovary’. Thirty years since I read it? I don’t know. I am still as full of admiration of its construction and execution as ever. So far as one can apprehend these in translation, but other aspects give me pause. Emma’s sufferings and agonisings seem to me more self-indulgent and more tiresomely stupid, than they did when I was young. I am now more tired of unrestrained license after some thirty years of it. Emma now seems more like my unsatisfactory niece than she did. I must say yet again, by the way, how grateful I am to have had the sense to give up my trying relations. What a crew!

Finally heard from Tim W. He rang back from the office where he’s being a secretary. Disgraceful that such a fine actor should be obliged to do such a thing. He has sold the house, to the same people, ‘But they conned us out of £7000.’ Well, dear Tim is the last to drive a hard bargain. He’s still in debt, but is going on a fortnight’s hol to Grease on Monday. ‘The last time I went on Holiday, I got a film when I came back.’ Of course, to me, perhaps attitude to holidays is a mystery. All that money and you mightn’t like the hotel or the place.

Spoke to Justin about Warren, and told him to mention the key.

I have just walked down to that nice Indian off-license in the Fulham Palace Rd. where the whisky is £1 cheaper than the wine-shop, or Safeways. I was wearing a shirt and shorts, in which I now look so absurd that I wouldn’t go out in daylight like that. I didn’t meet all that many people, but in any case I needn’t have worried. I looked at everyone, but nobody looked at me. No one now gets a disproving look for anything.

Saturday July 22 1995

Still fine and warm, but more than ten degrees lower, 71º or 72º and not humid.

Janet rang a.m. I wasn’t up – in H’smith. ‘I might call in..’ Odd.

Re-reading Ouida’s Moths. Quite readable still, she is sometimes linked with Marie Corellivery unfairly. M.C. is now totally unreadable and always has been for me, - such abominable writing, for a start. But Ouida, though absurd, of course, has a sort of sublime style that carries her through. And a certain worldliness denied to M.C. I suppose the difference is also represented by their real names, Louise De La Ronnie (Though I am suspicious of the ‘de la’) and Minnie Mackay.

Rang R. at the new house. He’d got the kitchen in order, and had had a bath. The two moving men were appalled by the stairs at Moray Rd. Having chicken for dinner.

Someone on the radio was being facetious about the past tense of ‘Forego’ – ‘‘Forwent’ sounds ridiculous.’’ People get perceptibly less literate.

Sunday July 23 1995

Snatch of children’s serial Miriam Margoles in a mobcap and a heavy Zummerzet accent, kneading some dough with one hand, ‘The time for secrets is past.’ From a book by Elizabeth Goodge, good heavens. I would have thought nothing was so dead as a fifty year old best-seller. What was it called ‘A city of bells,’ all over the place in my earliest teens. Daddy’s congregation read it, I think, so, sugary, I expect.

Made a list of favorite films, of 1994 for Justin, and was quite surprised, even nowadays, how many of the titles I’d completely forgotten, not an actor, not a line, not a picture.

Dear R said last night that I mustn’t think I wouldn’t see him just as often, poor love, he’s so young and is anyway apt to make rash promises. I think he has little idea not only how going to Cambridge will divide us, - that is not the important thing – it’s leaving the business that will take him away from us.

Monday July 24 1995

Hot and humid again, so I must give up life again! But at least I wrote all my letters, tax, Tom H. etc. and K., and got them out of my hot scalp.

It is salad weather, and I am specially fond of a lunch salad of Lollo Rosso Lettuce, little broad beans, diced crispy bacon, (1 rasher) and a medium-boiled egg. A more summery hot weather version of bacon and egg.

Went to Tesco’s in the p.m. and coming out met Janet, stopping off on her way home. It seems the builder, inspection over, estimate accepted has never turned up. Torture. I never met her there before, and I was wondering what the odds against such a meeting was – she was coming in and I was coming out – when Justin appeared, raising or lowering the odds to infinity – I have no idea which. Justin had been to the Shepherd’s Bush Empire to book for Terence Trent D’Arby. Oh.

Rang Sharron and made her laugh and lot about Warren and his mother. Good. She’s seen K. in a pub near Music House and he’d been nice. This was in response to me saying he’d asked after her with real concern on my b’day. I wonder why he finished it with him saying artlessly ‘The sex was still so good.’ He could do much worse. So could she.

Tuesday July 25 1995

Hard on my remarks about dyslexia, comes a programme about it, narrated by Angharad Rees, who is scarcely connected to actual brain activities of any kind. I was not presented with any evidence except the intensive teaching that would have to be given to any child who was slow, or stupid, or couldn’t concentrate, or was shiftless etc etc etc. Like an army crammer’s.

The headmaster of the much praised dyslexia school was an obvious phoney in his speech-day speech – everyone getting a prize like Th. the L. Glass – and, just like an unconfident homosexual apologist, he started claiming a series of famous names as dyslexics – after all, Sue Hampshire – Einstein and poor old Leonardo Da Vinci who gets claimed by everyone. I suppose Shakespeare escaped because of using words. Still hot.

Wednesday July 26 1995

Still hideously hot. I only dress to go out to the shops. How can I go anywhere else, when I come back with the back of my shirt black with sweat, and I mean a patch from shoulder to shoulder and down to my waist. Great blobs on my front as well. Embarrassing, I strip the moment I get in.

John W rang. Very sweet. We arranged lunch for August 8. I haven’t seen him since March, or talked to him really, and before that it was October. To think that not all that long ago we used to lunch every fortnight. But of course he didn’t share his life and loneliness with Simon R then, and I was able to pay for my own lunch. Not that I blame him at all for either changes.

Goodness me, I am unlucky with machines. As I was running my bath, there was an extraordinary rattling ring noise, which my deaf ear thought at first was someone trying to ring me on the ‘fridge. I traced it to the wall-phone, and nervously took the receiver off. The noise didn’t stop. As it had a nasty tension about it, I went upstairs to see if it was the upstairs ‘phone as well,- to find thick black smoke coming from the answering machine. I unplugged it, since when both ‘phones have been dead. Is it the fusing or is it the unplugging? As I know less than dust about such things, I shall leave it to K when he’s free. I daren’t ask BT to repair it, although under rental repairs are free, because if the ‘phones have been harmed by the a-machine fusing, I might have to pay to re-place them.

Shaw’s birthdays. I always think of him.

Thursday July 27 1995

Wrote to Mary L, Hazel and K asking him to come and look at it when he’s free. I hope I convinced him that I didn’t care when. It’s rather nice, being

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 135

July 27 1995 (cont) - September 11 1995.

Thursday July 27 1995 (cont.) cut off, - now I don’t work, it doesn’t really matter. Have also had nasty electric shock at the sink, as if the cold tap is alive…. Really. Is it connected with the telephone?

There has been a new scientific discovery. Someone has managed to create a temperature 100% colder than the coldest previously conceivable, which changes the nature of the atom, so that it becomes a super-atom. The two little half-people announcing this liberation for mankind were the usual ‘pure’ scientists, of the same type as those who felt able to make, for instance, the atom-bomb. Pure knowledge is all very well, but all the scientists I’ve known have not had large or enlightened views on anything else. And the harm they’ve done… in my now fairly long lifetime, I find it difficult to think of any new discovery that has been of unmixed benefit, and many, if not most, that have been mainly harmful. As for myself, I appreciate electric light, hot water and television, but all the rubbish about computers and so on has simply extended and at the same time diluted the insipid flow of information from people who would be wiser to remain silent.

I see that Bob Monkhouse’s two joke-books have been stolen, and he’s offering a £10,000 reward. He should have expected the public to strike back somehow.

Letter from Clare Kavanagh all these years later. Odd enough from Giles, but her… Flap was already open, looked to see if it was a change of address card from Jonathan Dimbleday and Bel Mooney. Wasn’t C.K. a free-lance journalist? That figures.

Friday July 28 1995

Tolerably hot and humid. Shirt back again black with sweat.

There is no doubt that I am enjoying having no ‘phone. After all, K so seldom rings up for a chat, and I never dare to ring him for one… but it’s also part of my character to relish no one knowing where I am. Did I not write about the pleasure of being in a lav. in a cinema, and thinking nobody knows where I am. What a sinister capital a stupid biographer could make of it being the lav? The simple explanation being that going to the lav. is the last thing I do before going into a film. I might equally well have the feeling all though the perf. but of course I’m watching the film. It is pleasant to know that I can’t be interrupted unless I am stupid enough to answer the front door. Which I nearly did at five-ish. The bell-rang and then again and again and again playfully, I threw on my shorts, thinking for a wild moment it might be K. rushing over to do the ‘phone. Watched from b’room, knowing K. would try the bottom bell and I could call… it was on those boys selling dusters and tea-towels, getting ripped off by his employers, and ripping us off in turn. He sorted out his wares on the bottom step for a bit, and then staggered off, with the biggish plastic box awkwardly on his hip. And it is especially humid today. The afternoons are awful.

Going back to scientists, what about cars? The only way motor-cars can survive is as an individual chug-chug armchair, run by whatever energy pollutes nothing. That famous glass of water, perhaps.

The main change that must somehow be brought about, is in finding cars and speed attractive and exciting; that reaction must be as firmly outlawed as any other unhealthy anti-social behavior.

Saturday July 29 1995

Dear little ten-minute film in a series about wartime weddings. Described love at first sight meeting. Small bridesmaid had to wear her school shoes, no coupons to waste on a pair of white satin shoes worn only once, and there the school shoes were in the wedding photo. He took a weekend too many off, and ‘the redcaps came to get him, and he couldn’t even say goodbye. Of course we didn’t know he wouldn’t be back for three and half years. He never saw baby who only lived seven weeks and never regained his birth weight. When that happened they were all buried together in an unmarked grave in those days, but I wanted a proper funeral, so his dad, who’d never seen him, would have somewhere to go. I had a really bad time, and it was all very heart breaking, it’s a very long time, but you never forget. No (with a smile at him) you never forget. And then he was coming home, he said he didn’t want me to come to the station, he wanted me to open the door to him, with an apron on. You know, one of those frilly aprons, I don’t think people wear frilly aprons any more do they? And they kissed, - their happiness was palpable. I cried, and wished we’d been able to grow a bit older together.

I brought the bedroom thermometer in here just to see, and it went up to 86º/30º with the blinds down.

Sunday July 30 1995

80º at 8 a.m. in the drawing-room, before the sun comes round at two.

Watched part of a film called Passions with Joanne Woodward, an actress always worth watching. The movement of the thing was all wrong, but that isn’t why it was called ‘a woman’s picture.’ That denigratory expression I think, describes a film or play that deals with feelings and/or lack of feelings. And the expression was invented by men because such films, good and bad as the case may be, make ‘men’ feel uneasy and possibly guilty.

I wonder if the month of your b’day has an influence of any kind on you. (No, I don’t believe in astrology) Judging by many Julys, including this one, my first fortnight might have been a heat wave, with thunderstorms. So? Still 80º at 10.0p.m. Same at 11.

Monday July 31 1995

A peacock butterfly in the garden yesterday, a small tortoiseshell in my bedroom last week, and more Cabbage Whites than usual. Alan B was right, ‘A butterfly is an event.’ Does anyone believe that you had to watch where you put your feet in the ‘30s,- clouds rising into the air – at Hengistbury Head, let alone the New Forest.

80º at 9.0 a.m. in the drawing room, 3rd hottest July this century. In the very hot weather, like this, tiny little flies come from nowhere and hover over the lemon on the drinks-table. They must come through the open fanlight from how far away? From the fanlight to the table must be about three hundred miles to us. And their sense of smell…

Dear programme about the first Prom – it’s the centenary. Some nice shots of Eva Turner, quite recognizable at 90ish, to me, to a person I met at Daddy’s church in the ‘30s – a very distinctive diction slightly ‘refeened’, decidedly over life-size just as she should be. A pleasant man who’s name I never caught said that sir H.W. used to say, at the end of the first piece after the air-raid syrens had sounded ‘Now don’t worry about the bombs. The orchestra will go on. The bombs will only hit you.’

Tuesday August 1 1995

Suddenly yesterday he was calling on the stairs and I had to say Let me dress. He’d come to cope with the telephone. He just pulled the wire out and the ‘phones worked. It turned out he’d ordered the engineer to come. Before he rang them to put them off, he said ‘Any dinner?’ ‘Yes’, I said, thanking god for the bit of cold lamb, and one punnet of straws. – he only likes a few – ‘Any alcohol?’ and I have, tho’ at what sacrifice.

He’s going to get a few quotes for one balcony pipe and the damp, before he goes off for a week – a fortnight’s? – holiday.

I was so amused that over dinner he asked me where he should go – he wants to lie on a beach somewhere… Europe in August. A little later I asked how Nigel was, and he said he was seeing him tomorrow night - tonight. I said ‘Nigel does still work in a travel agency?’ So that’s all right.

We watched my P. Cook tape, when he is four different people being interviewed by that little fair lawyer. Very funny and it was so lovely to have him sprawled all over the sofa again with his shoes off, screaming with laughter. It’s quite a time since he’s been here, - with all the work I go there more often.

He described a channel 4 meeting at his house, the next thing after his British Airways, which he’s finished and is getting £17000 for the whole thing; despite the nastiness, as he said, not bad for four weeks work. He tried to create a Channel 4 atmosphere, - ‘I thought I ought to ask a few classy feminists.’ So he asked Sonya, and of course that Lesbian girl who came to the opera with us, and is now something influential in music at C4. I said how was it with Sonia – ‘We have a casual fuck.’

Looked through the taxi cards, none of which I knew of course, then said ‘I think I shall ring comfort cars.’

He looked carefully at all the damp, and is going to do something about it. He gives me such comfort and love.

In Safeway’s I said to a plump sweating young woman enjoying the air-conditioning, ‘Going out there is like Scott of the Antarctic in reverse.’

Hideous, 93º here. Record 95º in 1976, poor darling D.

Wednesday August 2 1995

Suddenly Justin rang, and wanted to come round with my b’day present. So I pulled myself together and there he was, just the same. It seems he is now manning the telephone for some sort of brothel or ‘escort’ service.

He said two or three times I could change the present if I wanted to, within twenty-eight days. It turned to be Boy George’s autobiography. Well, I’m sure I shall be fascinated – I have always enjoyed his interviews, as he is genuinely sharp and quick, with an endearingly artless appetite for life, like the best sort of shop girl. I played him a bit of Top Secret, and he screamed, - Justin, I mean, not Boy George, though I daresay BG would scream too. He said he could only stay half-an-hour. Not bad, and very sweet and generous to give me anything. When he’d gone, my shirt was soaked, front and back, I only put it on to see him, so cried off the film and dinner with Janet. Too uncomfortable.

Thursday August 3 1995

My diary is so erratic for many earlier years that I wonder if I recorded my conversation with Paul McCartney. It was at a party at Frank Houser’s for the last night of A Heritage and Its History. Paul Mc C. was with Jane Asher – I suppose it was 1965 – and I had little interest in who he was – tho’ of course I knew of the Beatles’ huge success. I can’t remember what we talked about, probably him, helped along, no doubt, by Jane Asher’s conventional manners. I thought him charming and cheeky, as such a youngster healthily ought to be, and usually so boringly is. However, I have never stood much nonsense from cheeky boys, at least not since school. So I suddenly said, ‘Now it’s about time you asked me what I’ve been doing.’ In that curious adenoidal rising-inflection accent, he said ‘What have you been doing, Angus?’ – I told him I forget now what, and went on to say that the night before I’d watched Richard II on TV with David Warner, ‘Who’s David Warner?’ Only a simple hick from Liverpool, you see. He may even have said ‘Who’s R II’ too. Jane Asher turned on him and said ‘Paul, how can you be so affected? You watched part of it yourself, and you love David Warner.’ Interesting.

D. came up to me later a bit tight and said ‘They tell me there’s one of those cockroaches here, - is that true?’ Only funny if it was genuine ignorance and lack of interest. Which it was.

Programme about the Royal Bra shop in Knightsbridge. Oh the wonderful frightening realism of women.

28º/86º at 9.30pm 80º at 12.15. Oh, Boy George on gay prog. His appetite for life is endearing, and one can quite see what troubles it’s brought him. During the prog. what I take to be police helicopters buzzed round and round and round over H’Smith B’way with a huge searchlight trained down, loud enough to interrupt. What can it have been - an accident, an arrest? Tiresome.

Friday August 4 1995

At last a little relief. Two or three degrees cooler, less humidity, a real breeze. With everything propped open, including my legs, it’s more bearable.

K. rang as I was in the middle of dinner – ‘I’ve taken yr. suggestion, Portugal, the Algarve’. Well not the Algarve I didn’t suggest, he must just go somewhere, as D. and I did, asking in the village. He was ringing about about the cat. ‘Ring me tomorrow.’

25º/76º at 7.30 a.m. 82º at 8.0 p.m.

Saturday August 5 1995

Wonderful Atom Bomb day. And to think, I was in the middle of that terrible first training, and it’s fifty years ago.

Rang K. at 12.30 to find he still had nowhere to stay. ‘I’ll ring you later on, are you going to be at home? How are you?’

I must look up ‘ineluctable’ – in the small cottage dict. in the kitchen, it only says ‘that cannot be escaped from’. And now, upstairs in the Concise, the same. I have never used that meaning, - there must be a later meaning.

Watched a bit of the film of ‘Rebecca’, which I haven’t seen for forty? years – I saw it of course, at its first showing when I was thirteen or fourteen. Daphne Du M. is the peak of bestsellers. I think her ‘work’ is still in print, and as such, it has taken in an enormously larger number of people than, say, Barbara Cartland. Before two minutes had past, the deadly pall of cliché was falling, - ‘Time could not mar the symmetry of those walls’ ‘Whisper of the past’ etc. Film delicious hokum, of course. I remembered the scene in the beach house as if it were yesterday. ‘She got up from the sofa and’ using the camera to mime her movement. I’d never seen that before – I wonder when it was first done. Possibly by Hitchcock? Though I never think of him as original in that way.

K rang back about five. He’s got a flight midnight on Monday – oh dear he is a glutton for holiday punishment. That may be one day of his holiday wasted! We arranged about Boo – I said I’d do it all if Sharron were busy. I said Be careful. He said Well, if you’re going bungee- jumping you have to take a bit of a risk.’ I said ‘Not even in fun’ and I meant it. He has a bit of an idea, and is very good about it, but I worry every day all day when he’s away and flying, terrified what I’d do without him.

Sunday August 6 1995

No, the meaning in the big dict, for ‘ineluctable’ is just the same one line as the two smaller ones. To me it has always meant something that you can’t quite put your finger on. ‘The ineluctable quality of so and so’s prose…’ I associate it with Bloomsbury reviews. I wonder if I’m wrong, oh dear, modern inaccuracy. In Hazel’s letter, she quotes a sign outside a local pub, ‘Family’s welcome.’ I really believe many people under forty, simply sprinkle punctuation over the paragraphs like raisins into a fruit-cake – it’s just part of the recipe. Mistakes over the use of the apostrophe are almost universal now.

I saw a flash of a b&w movie made in 1943, when a fortyish man, meeting a young actress, said he’d been thrilled to see her just as he had been thrilled to see Mrs. Leslie Carter in Zaza. Hm. She certainly did tour in Zaza, one of her great melodramatic successes, but her heyday was long past. Shaw called her a melodramatic actress of no mean order, in 1898, when she was in her thirties. In 1921, ‘after many years absence from the stage’, Noël saw her in the Lottie Venne part in The Circle in New York and thought her strained and ill at ease, even though she was playing her own age, fifty-nine. Her first great success as Zaza was in 1899. So he could have seen her as Zaza, ‘scarlet hair piled high, blazing with diamonds’, but hardly, one feels, at her best, in an old-fasioned play, first played at twenty-eight. So many more likely choices might have been made for comparison, - Ethal Barrymore, for instance.

Rang R and had a rather dull talk, - he had nothing to say except that he hasn’t been paid for six weeks, ‘Tho’ I’m paid a month backwards, so it’s only two weeks late really.’ He’s got a cheque coming on Friday… Oh dear, he doesn’t seem to have done anything or been anywhere or spoken to anyone!

Watching the World Athletics – the only sport I ever watch and then only for seconds. I was struck by the absurdity of most of the National Anthems. The only point of them is as an accompaniment to standing about looking loyal. Every National Anthem but ours has at least two more sections than one needs before the loyal expression on one’s face becomes frozen. At least ours is short and simple.

Some nature programme was to feature a ‘wild wasp’s nest.’ Are there domestic wasps? To subdue a tiresome neighbour?

Oh dear, literacy. Advert: ‘that tastes, as good as it works.’

Monday August 7 1995

A most unseemly row between Michael Cain and Richard Harris. M.C. had labeled O’Toole and Burton and Harris as drunks and untalented at that. R. Harris wrote a violently attacking answer, whose main tenor was that it was disgraceful for one actor to attack another. As for the facts, if the three in question are not drunks, who is? But they were – are – by no means of equal talent. Burton was in another class from O’T or Harris. However, the main point is that neither the original letter nor the reply should ever have been written. The old rules have been abandoned by people with the brains or tastes to make new ones or avoid mistakes most harmful to the profession. The vast majority of actors I’ve known should keep their mouths shut on every subject including, perhaps specially including, acting, and the theatre. There is more danger of them being taken seriously on the theatre.

Bought and read Simon Gray’s account of the Fry debacle. Most entertainingly done, tho’ I would prefer it not to have been published. It is a well-documented cautionary tale of the well known dangers of working with amateurs. Stephen Fry’s ‘intelligence’, so much talked of, obviously allows him to behave very stupidly.

A card from the serial killer! How long is it? Two years? Eighteen months? The card perfectly reflects the funny little muddle and accident-prone persona. Postcard of Avignon. Message?

‘Dear Angus, I came here for the famous theatre festival in August. Which, of course, this year, for the first time, started at the beginning of July.’

Tuesday August 8 1995

I couldn’t write last night. K rang and asked if I could do Boo today, and told me he’d been on the ‘phone to someone at Ch.4? and she said, like me, incredulously, ‘The Algarve? Whatever you do, don’t go to Monte? Curro?’ At that very moment a call came through from the travel agency, he took it, ‘We’ve got you a room at the Monte Curro Hotel, the best…’ I daresay it’s the Costa Del Sol of Portug. Ah well, he’ll have to learn. He’s so good, he’ll hire a car, and meet someone and find something. But I couldn’t write, I just sat up waiting for 12.0 and hoping I wouldn’t hear the crash. Nothing so far today! Five to eight, Tues. Sharon rang last night, and we had a jolly talk, - she relished Avingon. And her Dorset weekend went well. Dins on Thursday.

Eventually got Tim on the ‘phone, back from Greece. He leaves the house in thirteen days time, and moves in with his friend, Jason, for at least six months. The flat is in the Borough. Mark and Cecilia have taken a mortgage on somewhere in Walthamstow. Well, we always push into new places. His parents have sold their house, so it’s all go.

Went over to feed Boo, various lights on, and the curtains on front and back doors knotted up so that all is revealed. Spare room window so open, both sashes were together. The lights on are deliberate, - I wasn’t sure about the knotted up curtains showing his bike in the hall – just the thing to attract a casual thief. Extraordinary the way the cat comes from where? to be fed.

When I got back rang John N. to cancel lunch. I just could not face the effort and the sweat. Pretended to him that I had to be at K’s to wait in for some equipment. I can’t face another restaurant till this weather is over. I just stream.

When I said that I wish S. Gray hadn’t published his little book at all, I meant that I was disturbed by the exposure of theatre discipline to the outside world. After all, the vast majority of people would think nothing of asking for a fortnight off at Christmas. And the half and so on, no.

Oh his desk in the studio was my photograph – like a stuck pig for my travel permit. Imagine, in the centre of his desk.

Wednesday August 9 1995

It’s getting hot again, bother. Rang Sharron because I wasn’t sure what I’d arranged about Boo, and was a little dashed to find that I was to feed him every day! Off I went again, three quarters of an hour each way. I was scalding out the cat’s dishes, with him oiling round my ankles, when I suddenly had to shit. He came upstairs with me, climbed up the chair with the big pile of magazines, raising his eyes onto a level with me, and stared at me unwinkingly and reproachfully, until I’d finished, and he knew his food was on the way. How can anyone love a cat? or any animal, if it comes to that. The people who say they do, are in my experience, seldom able to love a person, and the more obsessive about animals they are, the less humans they welcome. Talking of which, I love the real animal programme, where we are simply presented with facts of their animal behavior. I love to see, for instance, a bear chomping into a salmon it’s just caught. Delicious.

Thursday August 10 1995

Usual pleasant evening with Sharron. She hadn’t much new to say, except that her and Simon had tentatively suggested moving in together and she’d refused. She says she’s chary of any future commitment etc etc. Only one or two dismissive remarks about K, and little talk of him, which is an improvement. It’s v. interesting to me how many people have spoken dismissively of him in my presence - I presume a reaction to a very strong personality. Salad Nicoise and scots raspberries, she brought two nutty delicious pieces of cheese, one cow, one goat, the labels are downstairs. When good cheese is à point, I usually eat till it’s finished. It’s the state of the cheese that’s important. Supermarkets…

Hideously hot again, so I was sadly waiting for her to go.

Friday August 11 1995

Yes, waiting for her to go so that I could be naked. It’s 80º at eleven again.

I went up to the West End to change the ‘Boy George’ book, not because I didn’t enjoy it, but because space is at a premium and it is not my subject. (Sharron was feeding Boo.) I thought I’d change the book at Books Etc. in Charing X Rd, and go through Soho and look at Rupert St. market and the fishmongers and go to the 4.15 show of the new film ‘Spanking the Monkey.’ Swarming with tourists, - they will stop at the narrowest point of whatever it is, and that, and the extreme heat, allowed me only to go to the bookshop and change the BG for the new biog. of Angus Wilson. Apart from anything else, I realised that I would end up in the rush-hour after the film, on Friday and that was too awful to contemplate. I have to emphasize that the W/E was as full, as absurdly full, as I’ve ever seen it, and it was full of unsophisticated people. The overwhelming feeling that the vast majority of the people round me were getting nothing out of being in London, drove me home.

I have also got a sore Achilles tendon. Bother.

The Angus Wilson most interesting. It by Margaret Drabble, so of course it is at once too pedestrian and too chatty, too detailed and yet lacking in more general conclusions. The main misjudgment is in assuming that a minor figure like A.W. deserves this major treatment. More later, how grateful I am that I will never be the subject of a modern biography.

90º again, and 1976 is now surpassed. Horrible, if horror follows.

Saturday August 12 1995

10.30 p.m. 78º tho’ quite a breeze.

In the a.m. to sorting office with a card saying a parcel had been sent to this address, for Max Mathias. The parcel was a common little affair, of some soft thing with lots of crumpled brown paper folded clumsily round it. And the address and the name was as clear as it could be. I’d looked up Mathias in the telephone-directory, because there are only twenty Mathias’ none anywhere near here. Perhaps I should have checked Irving as well. Then to the Halifax to draw out a bit, soaked in sweat. (It makes it hard to write here, the heat of my hand makes the paper impermeable.)

About three to K’s to feed Boo, my head worse than yesterday, so the long haul at Arsenal a struggle, but a good draught.

Sunday August 13 1995

Not quite so hot, but quite stifling enough. If only it would stay about 72º, I would be all right. My foot no worse or swollen or more painful. It is only a bit stiff rather than painful. I don’t feel anything when I’m sitting down.

Oh Hazel H. rang yesterday, because she might have to go to Bristol tomorrow, to take someone to look after someone else recovering from breast cancer. She also told me she has irritable bowel syndrome, and is going to a homeopathic doctor on Tuesday. I’m all for homeopathy because it can’t do any harm, but I don’t really believe in irritable bowl – it’s just a more exiting name for wind and squitters. I would have irritable everything syndrome if I had to live with Geoffrey – Tom goes to San Fr. on September 14 to work on a cartoon script of Flying Dutch but not his novel. No wonder he doesn’t want to go.

Rang Hazel when I got back. She’d felt better, and had gone. This heat makes me dull.

Monday August 14 1995

Hazel rang to see how my heel was. Very kind, but this might go on forever, still frightful. I wanted to see the new film, but still felt too nervous of being caught in the rush-hour. Even an empty carriage is stifling. The new house in Margravine Gardens has been sold. The ‘Sold’ board went up while I was at the shops. I don’t understand estate-agents. Foxton’s had had a board up all the time, and there have been one or two others, but the sold board belongs to Raymond Bushell. Odd. I wonder how much more has been knocked off.

The A. Wilson is setting my teeth on edge. Now he is joining the staff of the yet-unopened University of East Anglia. As that part of his life unfolds, you see the origin of so many of the idiocies of the 60’s that bedevil us today, just as I said they would. I am so interested that those two awful cold fish, Ian Watt and Frank Thistlewaite were in high positions there. Goodness, they were off-putting when I was an undergraduate. They took no interest in me at all, and couldn’t conceal it.

At one point, Bacon’s ‘If a man begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts, but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties.’ Mary L’s dilemma in a nutshell. Not that she has a dilemma, poor darling.

An article about Arabs in London – it seems there are 700,000 of them in Bayswater in the summer, and all sorts of extraordinary corruption,- arms deals, drugs deals, political goodness knows what – going on.

Still I preferred the news that a Saudi Arabian Princess had last month brought from Bradley’s in Knightsbridge, £40,000 worth of knickers… and in the Wilson, one of Philippe Julian’s b-friends is called Bent Mohn.

Tuesday August 15 1995

VJ day – good heavens.

K rang, back and safe, that’s all that matters.

Still stifling.

Wednesday August 16 1995

Well, it all went better than I feared. He did hire a car every day to escape the hotel which was like Blackpool. He found some lovely quite empty enough beaches. He described a little restaurant at the edge of the beach, where he had sardines straight from the sea, baked, which were like nothing he’s ever tasted before. Fresh you see. So it was a success, crowned by meeting a twenty one year old Portuguese girl on the last night. He is charmingly naïf sometimes. He said artlessly, ‘It seems it’s quite rare for Portuguese girls to go out with English or other European men, well, strict Catholics, etc etc. – are they still? In any case, K knew nothing of such things, and I take it she was his authority for the information. It is even funnier when you realise that she came across whatever-it-was – a café or a bar, I suppose – and approached him. ‘At this rate I may be going back every weekend.’ Well, well my hardened roué in a holiday romance. I must remind him of that silly radio advert of two Liverpool girls. Still, it seems to have been restorative and that’s the main thing. ‘I’ll just look around and get myself going, and you must come over.’ Thanked me very properly for looking after the cat.

Talking of Liverpool, there was another of those wartime marriage progs. The man, a big stabsided creature, was Liverpool with unmistakable lift in voice and spirit. Again the love was palpable – knowing each other through and through and still together in love - it finished with him saying ‘So we got married. Brenda got a medal for bravery, and I was voted Sportsman of the Year.’

Still more or less unbearable.

Thursday August 17 1995

Have now finished the Angus Wilson, and my first criticisms are more than confirmed. She has faintly no idea what a melancholy depressing picture she has inexpertly painted. The restlessness of the couple is really wearisome. Every few weeks they are off somewhere, with all the horror of modern travel. I’m really surprised he didn’t die long before. Incidental interest to me because of the people I’ve known in it. That Arnold boy, P. Wood, Michael Woolley!, Patrick Woodcock, who was our doctor for some time, too. Those two queens who entertained D. at Stragglethorpe, when she opened Nottingham. N. St. J. Stevas etc. All adds fascination.

As for poor Drabble, there are a page and a half of an elaborate comparison between A.W. and Dickens. A.W. ‘worshipped’ D, no doubt, and wrote a picture-book about him, but really… not that I care for Dickens much. But the comparison is not only absurdly forced in its detail, but completely misjudged to start with. There is no comparison between them.

Oh, dear, that vision of the little world, they live in, praising or denigrating each other, - oh, I thank goodness I’ve never been in it, tho’ in and out of its fringes at times.

Still stifling. I can do nothing. Didn’t go to film tonight. 78º at 11.10 p.m.

Friday August 18 1995

Had enough cold food – a bit of gammon, cold chicken, salad – and did not go out at all. Or shave. How I hate this heat. Can’t bother to record the temperature – it’s always above 80º during the day in here. Always hoping to do more than a trip to Tesco’s, but I always turn tail and come home.

A noisy party obliquely four gardens away.

Saturday August 19 1995

Rather better dream this a.m. I was being brilliant in a mess of an Agatha Christie production, with swathes of actors peeling helplessly out of my way, me improvising out of all the difficulties. At the end of Act I, I came off to find Reggie S in the wings, saying ‘I’ve had some wonderful letters about your perf.’ This shambolic production was by Vivien Leigh. I said to her ‘Vivien, you have no gift for production at all’ and she agreed.

Actually I thought afterwards tho’ not surprisingly that I used the old word ‘production’, and Vivien might have made a very good director within limits. She had a very ordered mind, probably too much so, but comedies have been her line. But of course in those days she was too big a star for it to be possible. I didn’t go back for the second Act, by the way. I hope I didn’t shout, with the windows open.

Oh, yes, the noisy party… by about ten when they were on their third or fourth drinks, there was a high scream with some voices recognisable, tho’ not words. There was little or no music, so the television play I was watching was not disturbed, when I went to bed on the other side of the house I couldn’t hear a thing. As I often do in this horrible summer, I woke at quarter past five and went, naked, of course – not a pretty sight these days – to open the balcony doors. Even then there is nothing that can be called cool air. The party was still going on. It was not quite dawn, the lighted windows still looked lighted. There was a low ground-swell, no doubt, of exhausted longing hosts, and one woman’s voice, raised in ceaseless, querulous, self obsessed monologue. There are moments in life of profound gratitude for just being somewhere else.

Watched part of the VJ parade, I am always moved to tears by people showing respect for the Queen, by dignity and the proper observance of manners. The two young princes were there. How strange the Royal Family likeness is! Prince William’s features, slope and shape of face and head, are exactly like some of the princess in Gainsboro’s multiple portraits of George III’s children. The bit I liked best was the Lancaster bomber sending a cloud of poppies down on to the Mall. They went a bit sideways, and I thought how surprised the sunbathers in Green Park must have been.

Oh, those interminable football results being read out on radio and television all at the same time, so there is a blank quarter of an hour. Why must they be read out as well on TV? Are there so many blind football fans living alone?

And talking of football, tho’ not for long, ‘genius’ is a word often bandied about sporting circles, ‘Genius – exalted intellectual power, instinctive and extraordinary imaginative, creative or inventive capacity.’ There you are.

Sunday August 20 1995

K rang at 2.0. Told me a little more about her, Arlette Maria. Going to university in Sept. ‘I said Are you interested in the stars? Do you mean astrology? No, I’m interested in Astronomy.’ She’s reading chemistry. He’s going back to Portugal for six days from Thursday. He might be seeing Pete, ‘Otherwise tonight, or Tuesday would be good.’ So it’s that cat again!

Monday august 21 1995

So I went last night and am satisfactorily hungover today, an unusual occurrence these days. He was looking a little tanned but well, and not at all knocked sideways. So we got thoroughly up- to-date. I’ll do the other news first.

At one point he said John Warnaby had kind eyes. Well, I don’t think I’d told him my real opinion before, partly because he hasn’t mentioned him lately, and partly because they were working together before, and my real opinion was not useful. I said I thought him patronizing and superficial, not to mention that him working for Lloyds’ as well as acting is thoroughly revolting and unprofessional to me. ‘He’s going to give up Lloyds for acting.’ Hm, he’d said on the ‘phone that he was a bit knackered because he’d been out with the boys on Friday night, and broken off with Sonia on Sat! ‘The boys’ were the Music House lot, plus they went to the White Horse opposite Music House, and hadn’t been there long when the man he was talking to, looked over K’s shoulder and said ‘Oh now. I fancy her!’ and it was Sharron. K obviously rather enjoyed going up and giving a hug, rather stunning the man. ‘She was looking good.’ But was slightly troubled that she was there at all. I said she’d been there with him, and probably it just shot into her mind when her friend said where shall we meet? After all, she would have to hover in the pub every day, for any good chance of meeting him. So ‘the boys’ went on somewhere else and somewhere else and I thought how awful such an evening would be to me, not just because I’m old now and deaf, but at any point in my life. I’ve never liked pubs, and I’ve never thought of going to a club, and have never been to one. I like a drink and I love my friends, but I must be alone with them. At any rate, at one-ish, the others went into a club, but K was stopped by the bouncer. ‘You’re pissed.’ When that was denied, ‘You’re a poof aren’t you?’ It went on to such a point that he turned away and went home. Poor K he could hardly prove that he was finishing with a 39-year-old woman the next night and off to Portugal for a perfervid week with a 21 year old girl the following Thursday. The bouncer looked like a bouncer. K has shoulder length hair, and for a man, features on the fine side. I think he was probably saved a scary end of the evening. Oh, and Steve Wilson announced that he wanted to give up law for the stage. (He’s doing very well as most lawyers do these days, it seems to me.) ‘I tore into him. You’d have been proud of me.’

So on Saturday he finished with Sonia over a drink, of course, as always. Although she’s a career woman, she did not treat the affair as the comparatively casual thing he’d always told her it was. She’d fallen in love with him of course, and the evening ended at first acrimoniously with her driving off saying ‘I hope you won’t treat anyone as cruelly as you have me.’ But when he got home she was waiting in the car and apologised. First time I’d liked her.

S. to Arlette Maria. She lives with her mother in a tiny village. Her father is dead. She’s working in an office till she goes to university. She was on holiday where he was with three friends. It was after he wrote me that card, he went off to a club. ‘I wasn’t expecting anything, I’d worn my best clothes earlier in the week, but nothing – so I was in my dreariest clothes, these, I think,’ pulling at what he was wearing. ‘Thank you.’ I said, ‘So there was this high platform above the band, where you danced if you really wanted to show off, there were only a few others. And she came up.’ He described their evening in detail but I am not good at descriptions of lovemaking. It sounded lovely. He thought she had the curse, saw a little bit of blood on her knickers, and that’s why she wouldn’t do it. But later he was lying prone, and she sat on him. He felt her taking her clothes off, when he put it in, she said, ‘Talk to me Kevin.’

My guess is that she has a real gift for love-making, if she’s only twenty-one. It suddenly occurred to me that at no point did he tell me that he had told her he was a musician, until she saw his guitar. Of course, younger people are always mysterious! I am just so pleased he had to tell me all about it. To throw his feelings against mine to see how true they ring, or not. I see he does that constantly. At another point, he said, ‘But you’re an extreme creative, extremely intelligent, extremely literary (- I can’t remember what word he used, but that’s what he meant) person.’ And the dear chap believes that he remembers everything about me, - that’s a sort of definition of love,- all my difficulties, and all my pleasures.

Chicken, r. beans ‘your favorite, Aligotes’ and ‘there’s a peach and a pear, no cream.’ So sweet, he loves fruit now; I have never reminded him of his youth, unless he has asked.

He stopped me going at eleven-fifteen and I left at about one? was it? in a mini-cab. He said they said it would £12, and gave me a £20 note. ‘So don’t let him charge you more.’ Nice Pakistani driver. He said he hoped I’d had a nice evening with my son. So I said I had. Lovely, so I could talk to him on equal terms. Not that I wanted a natural son. There is none like him.

Tuesday August 23 1995

Still recovering from Sunday! Dozed off after reading the papers and woke at a quarter to two.

I found myself in the unlikely position of being able to tell a football joke to Roy. Major goes to buy a ticket to a football match. ‘£50? You can get a woman for £50 in Hong Kong.’ ‘Yes, but not with 45 minutes each way and a brass-band in the interval.’

It’s a hundred years since O. Wilde’s debacle. And Shaw’s theatre criticism is a hundred years old too. Odd thought, as they are still advance of most theatre writing. Poor little programme about him, with a lot of professional homosexuals taking part. That’s is one of the worst results of prejudice, the fearful self-consciousness. I could not place the plump pianist trilling out little period ditties. Courtney Kenny. When and where did we work with him? No idea, but I think he came to M. Rd in D’s time.

Wednesday August 23 1995

Mentioned to K on Sunday the strange fossilization of pop music. Forty years on, the picture of three or four young men, manipulating guitars like mad phalluses, backed by a drummer going carefully mad, is still more or less the classic centre of popular music. How odd. ‘Modern Youth’ is supposed to be so iconoclastic. In the past that would mean real revolution. But guitars are still de rigeur forty years later. Odd, but then look at their clothes – no really new impulse for the same time. As I always say, the poor things are still desperately reacting against a status quo that they still desperately hope is still there.

He limned out, rather beyond my understanding, music without musicians. I can’t believe ordinary people will ever do without a living breathing palpable human.

Cloudy all day and four or five degrees cooler. Went to pay the video payment, and suddenly rain fell. The E. Standard came out with a little insert ‘first rain in London for 27 days’. I’d have thought people would look around and remark. Not at all. Except the dear fishmonger in the market, John Tydeman. I said ‘What is this stuff that’s falling down? No one seems to know what it is.’ ‘I keep asking around, but I’m no further forward.’

K wasn’t as sharp. I rang at 6.0 to get it over with, and he just said, ‘I don’t follow you.’ But he had a cough and cold. ‘I didn’t tell you.’ He gave me Maria’s work number and Maria’s mother’s number, ‘She doesn’t speak English, but if it’s urgent, just keep ringing till Maria gets home.’ By which time M’s mother will no doubt be removed to an asylum after repeated calls from sinister foreigner. I rang to dilute the pain of him going away again, and risking his life in another bloody plane. I hope the week goes well and the girl is kind. At least his cold might be better by the w/e. Oh, I hate him being away. She sounds as if she has a gift for love, and is not a fool.

Tried to tape the Mark Morris ballet from Edinburgh, on the regular programme presented by Emma Freud. Various items were announced, most of them of interest to me. Not a single one of them was shown, and as no announcement has made of any changes, I had to sit through endless inept turns of one sort or another, some of them the depths of Scots inanity and bitterness. Really, it was like a conspiracy to force one to watch rubbish.

I hate him, going away, - it’s only the physical danger. The plane, the car, the sea… and he’s got a cold and a cough.

Thursday August 24 1995

Bearable. The D. Mail full of interest. Dieter Brummer, Hazel’s favorite, in home and Away, accused of drugs – only pot, poor little morsel. Roy’s ‘Back-Up’ may be impounded in case it prejudices the West trail. And S has a picture in the Michael Barrymore spread, saying he ends up alone and is described as ‘a popular entertainer.’ Left a message saying our friendship was over.

One of the horrors of extreme heat for me, is having to have doors and window open. I do not feel at all comfortable with my bedroom door open.

In the p.m. to film at Fulham. In my attempt to walk as little as possible, I walked further. My Achilles tendon is still very sore and stiff. I thought it was better after the swelling went down, but it’s come back. Rang Sharron for a chat, and she told me she had a bad period, or rather had been having bad periods for the last six months. She’s always felt bad, but this is very heavy bleeding and must be seen to. I told her it was dysmenorrhea, but when I looked up my A. tendon, I looked up hers, and it’s menorrhagia. I think. Nothing to be done for mine, but rest. for her, depending, probably a D and C.

And was the film remotely worth it? No. ‘Suite 16’ should have told me. I thought that, with Pete (sic) Postlewaite, and some foreign actors it might be better than its notices. The young man was so abominably inept that I was driven from the cinema after less than half an hour.

I was so touched that one of the veg. on Sunday was runner beans, rather irregularly cut up. I just knew he’d been going to bring them in to cut up in the drawing-room.

Friday August 25 1995

The head of the lung dept. at the Royal Marsden says that chemotherapy tended not to be offered for lung cancer to patients over seventy. He disapproved, but I must obviously develop cancer quickly to be sure of being properly looked after.

A wretched ‘charismatic’ person has come spectacularly to grief in Sheffield of all places. Nothing interesting about it, except that it confirms in every particular my forebodings about pop type Christianity. He had a clutch of female acolytes in black lycra, whom he ‘fouled.’ They did the same, wanking him to make him more spiritual. I am much amused that the Dean, I think, was obliged to announce, as a mitigating circumstance, that ‘Christopher always stopped short of penetration.’ Oh dear, how gullible everyone is now, - I dare say I could have taken one, or possibly two, looks …. I wonder what’s happened to poor little Peter Hutchinson.

Well, the tube-strike turned out rather worse than anyone expected. The Piccadilly down to a third and Arsenal closed. A good thing I told K to give the cat a whole tin. I believe the traffic jams were more than usually awful.

Victoria Wood in holiday camping sketch, calls at a farm-house in the Yorkshire Dales? Lake District?, which of course is occupied by yuppies, ‘Milk? Couldn’t we fax some in?’

Saw what I thought might be small blue butterfly over the gardens apposite. It was just ahead of me and never got a proper look. Nevertheless it looked too small winged for small white, and no black edge, it flew like a butterfly and not a startled moth. Some female blue b’flies are very pale, and I have seen a blue round here, and the heat… by the bicycle rack by the shops a Red Admiral swooped about and stopped under one of the bikes, and basked and fanned and basked. And I basked in the rich velvet colours of my youth… two girls passed and clearly thought I was rather odd. They did not look at what I was looking at. Sad.

Saturday August 26 1995

Journey to K’s packed like the rush-hour even in the last carriage, at three o’clock. Part tourists, part proles bent on shopping and going wherever there are most people. I think I hate those people most, as they have done the most harm in the modern world by the weight of their mediocrity.

Hazel rang when I got back, because she will be busy tomorrow, and most of the rest of the week is almost entirely tedious tiresome and even hideous chores. Tim is to be interviewed by some mag. which has entailed Kim cleaning his study – ‘It was knee deep in cartridge-cases.’ Oh dear, some day poor Hazel is going to realise how utterly repellent much of his character is. Not to mention what I think about guns. It seems Terry Pratchett behaved badly on the last signing trip. There was some stuff of disagreement over Terry’s dustcovers being changed and coping Tom’s, or something. During Tom’s talk, Terry P. produced a jack-in-the-box, and played with it. I expect he’s just as unpleasant a character as Tom.

Then the poor little man who runs Tom’s fan-club – already? – had nowhere to sleep, and said ‘Oh, I’ll crash on your hotel room floor.’ Tom at any rate had enough sense to book him into a room of his own. Trouble there, I expect. Fans are obsessional by their nature.

Melancholy film about 600,000 strong Isle of Wight pop concert in 1970. I meant to watch, but the spectacle of so much ugly hopeless self indulgence was too much for me.

Sunday August 27 1995

At K’s made his bed, more comforting for him to come back and drew the curtains back to look more lived in. Round one of the big bed-posts were wound two or three very delicate very pale gold narrow chiffon scarves. Hm. Tranny bondage now, eh?

Those awful dogs barked when I watered the plants. I must say it would quite spoil my enjoyment of that garden if it were mine. I would always feel they could claw through or leap over any fence. That’s why I’m so grateful for my completely walled garden – and highish walls, too.

Rang R from K’s and had a chat. He’s coming up ‘on business’ Tuesday or Wednesday and wants to pick up the wallpaper stripper from the spare room. So it will be killing birds, a little meeting in the p.m. at K’s without expense.

At last my Achilles tendon inflammation, if that’s what it is, is getting better. A week or so ago, it seemed to have gone, after all the swelling went down, and then it came back, feeling stiff or sore, and still making me limp with my whole foot. I think, it may be a combination of –my- slippers-all-the-time, perhaps a bite, perhaps a patch, just above the ankle-bone, of my psoriasis? Goodness knows, but today, once out in the street – and how foot troubles or leg troubles never really show themselves, till then – it was ‘better’. How I dislike the inaccuracy of so many peoples’ language, which has resulted in ‘better’ being used to mean ‘well’. Why do people do this? I don’t understand. Probably it comes from America, no consolation, so that it results in me having to say ‘I’m better than I was, but I’m not well.’

All the same, it’s a relief not to take the walk up the Arsenal slope as a bit of a toil. Oh, I love going to his house when he’s away, - for a bit, I feel closer to him, it helps.

Monday August 28 1995

I see that that little girl called Chelsea Burke, from whom £100,000 was drummed up in the tabloids to take her to America for treatment for cancer, has died. English doctors said there was nothing to be done for her. She was treated exhaustively in Am. and has died, after no doubt, much suffering. Well, that child has been sacrificed to that vulgar suburban dream that death does not exist, and she has had an undignified end and American doctors are richer by £100,000. Which is, I suppose, why they agreed to operate.

Oh, I was impressed that K. had mastered the little whatever-it-is – cedila – over some vowel in some Portuguese words ! I’d like to have heard her explain to him how to write it. Took away a few runner beans and a few bobby beans, already going off.

Tuesday August 29 1995

Really cool at last. Nice grey skies and the thermometer at 63ºish. Lovely. That’s how I like weather to be – unnoticeable, English.

To H’smith in a.m. for shopping. Heel ‘better’, but still sore, tho’ inhibiting walking nearly as much. Now I see what old age is like, injuries or complaints take so much longer to repair themselves. And they come on again after they’ve seemed to have gone. I have always had a good healing flesh and thrown off colds and so on. Mind you, I’ve only ever had v. minor complaints.

A re-run of Michael Parkinson’s interview with that pathetic creature, Kenneth Williams, this particular one, a ghastly little archetype of sixties mess. John Betjeman, Maggie Smith, a great friend, of course, and K.W. J.B. trying to join in and trying to stand aside, but not able to resist being there. Degrading and disgusting.

I tried Edinburgh Nights again, and found it seemed to be a commercial for that dire Steve Martin film based on Silas Marner. I turned it on and off about three times in half an hour and it was always Steve Martin. Disgraceful on BBC2.

To feed Boo in the p.m. as usual and to let R in to pick up the wall-paper stripping machine. Both most frustrating. I put out the food, and for the most part, Boo has always been there before, certainly during, the preparation of the food. He did not appear for half an hour, and R who had changed his time from 3.15 to 4 or 4.15, turned up at 4.50, as I was walking away, having given him up. He was wearing a suit, which I had never seen him do before, and it gave a strange pictorial underlining to the change in his life. Because he was late – and very characteristically, he never said why, only that he was held up – we had no time for the proper chat I’d hoped for, only the walk to the tube, and the journey to King X where he got off to go back to Cambridge. He seems perfectly happy. Ah well.

Wednesday August 30 1995

It only occurred to me today, when I caught the cliffhanger of an ‘East Enders’ episode, that, of course, the charm of ‘soaps’ is that their attitudes and morals are at least a hundred years out of date. A youngish man was being fairly aggressively berated by a very young woman. Barbara Windsor, behind the bar: ‘That’s not the way to talk to your father.’ Curtain. As the young woman and/or the man hadn’t known this fact before, presumably, it makes it identical with: ‘Do not strike, he is your own father’ from ‘A Woman of no Importance.’

There is much talk these days of there being no absolute standards about – well, anything. That is why ‘elitist’ has become a term of abuse. So useful it all is because you don’t have to make up your mind about anything, and everything can be equally good. As fewer and fewer people these days seem to have minds, it is an idea that is naturally attractive. Perhaps you could get these people to admit that it might be thought absolutely wrong for a couple of boys of ten to throw a concrete-block off the top of a high-rise block, where it landed on the head of a seventy four year old woman, killing her instantly.

The cat seemed all right today, and the studio still there.

K rang at 10.15 or so. Safe back, thank god, as warm as toast. Seems happy – such a relief.

Thursday August 31 1995

Nigel rang to ask me to dinner, as K had suggested to him, I bet. His affair with a married woman something his senior, is drawing to a close. ‘It could be quite nasty.’ Yes, indeed. Her husband is an inspector at Notting Hill Police Station and Head of the Vice Squad.

Partly re-read The Midnight Folk by John Masefield. It was one of our childhood books, Donald’s, I think, and signed by John M, I also think, because he’d come and spoken at Daddy’s Guild and they’d corresponded. It was never a favorite of mine, though there are fascinating bits. He is marvelous at names, for instance, but there are so many ‘flash-backs’ and then of course there is the major difficulty for me of my complete lack of interest in pirates and treasure. I have never got to the end of the first page of Treasure Island. Oh the novels that can’t be put down that I can’t pick up.

Friday September 1 1995

Completely broke again till Monday , no cash till then, tho’ there have been two welcome cheques, £43 an £13, for One Foot In The Grave video, little wine, and no going anywhere. Quiet cool now, rain, quite dark. I shall start to complain of the cold soon. No shave, no talk.

Saturday September 2 1995

K rang to say dinner was off as he just can’t get the work done in time. I was hoping for dinner, just some gin and some food, but I love him to work, and hope I never do anything to disturb it. I didn’t say the lower hall light had gone out and I had no new bulb for it, the dining-room light had gone and a new bulb went out, too, so… Not to mention the electric-shocks off the fridge hadn’t gone away, two rings are off my bedroom-curtains, so I can’t draw them without a walking stick… then there’s the damp, and no lodger…

An eleven-year old boy, said on the news, ‘Some lighting came down really fast.’ Like lighting is suppose to do.

Justin at last rang, and we had a jolly talk about films as usual, tinged with geiety to make him feel at home. He’s leaving these digs, not, for once, because he’s wayward, but because his landlords are stopping having lodgers.

And, of course, the two water-heaters and …

Sunday September 3 1995

And now the telephones have gone wrong; a sound like a tropical storm made me almost report it to the Met. Office. And there’s another tube-strike tomorrow, and I had such a nice day arranged. The first day the tube and the West End is free of those terrible children and their parents in turquoise and green shell suits.

I see The Times is offering an original Turner water-colour as a prize in a completion. If that isn’t one way and another, a sign of a declining civilization….

Perhaps I could call my memoirs, The One with the Fault – any machine that enters the house. Not people, machines.

Monday September 4 1995

In the end the telephone man arrived fairly on cue, at two-thirtyish, one of these great big huge black men, who laughed at almost everything I said, or rather shook. Now if he’d been any other ancestry but West Indian, that might have been ‘inane and insipid’, and the result of empty- headedness. It is the result of great good-nature and vitality. I couldn’t live with it, but it’s charming. He laughed when I said ‘I’d like to keep my dear old telephone, if possible.’ He laughed when I said the down stairs telephone had fallen of its hooks three times in the last month. And when I told him the joke about the Met Office, I thought he would have to sit down. He checked the telephone, unscrewed the little box in the hall and pronounced that it was an outside fault, and engineers would have to see to it. These good solid pre-war man-hole covers are still unmarked by time and still have post office on them. There is one more or less outside, so his promise of today, if possible, but then tomorrow, will be fairly obviously kept or not. And I don’t have to do anything.

So off I went on the first little jaunt really since the hot weather, despite the tube strike. I was lucky in my first train, rather fuller than usual, but no slower. Got out at Picc. Circ. and to the Halifax to take out and put in some money. There wasn’t time to go to the Alliance if I were to get to the cinema in time. Then I suddenly felt I’d better go home in case the strike hit home. I went down to the tube again, and found the down escalators, which are long, not working. Now it’s worse at my age, walking down stairs is much worse than up. So before I knew where I was, I was in The Metro, seeing Spanking The Monkey, which I hadn’t meant to see today at all. I quite see what Justin meant, it is the sort of small intimate film that seldom comes out of America, sensitively acted, intelligently written, on the unlikely side, but it held me. S.ing the M. means incidentally, wanking. Now yanks don’t wank, they jerk off, and so on, and I don’t think they even know the word. So the assonance is interesting. Can it have come through rhyming slang in some way? Little short – very short, two or three mins – about Catherine the Great being crushed to death beneath a horse slung on a harness that she hoped would fuck her. I don’t think there was anybody on that film who knew anything about horses, - there was no on- heat mare in sight, and I don’t think even Catharine The Great being on permanent season would do the trick. It could have been much funnier and wittier. It was about sixty-thirty when I came out and I decided to walk to The Strand, and catch a number nine as far back as possible. I said a week or two ago that the grass was not showing the same devastation as in 1976. But because of my slow simmering in seclusion during the heat, I was wrong. I hadn’t seen any grass for some weeks, until I saw Leicester Square. There is no grass left on most of it, let alone green. To my surprise, as I walked through it down The Strand, I saw that the soil looked like sand, still being turned over by pigeons and tourists. I would have thought such a position would have needed the thickest of soils to hold whatever moisture is going.

But that walk, from Rupert St. to The Strand, on a day like this, is a depressing experience. This particular area is completely Americanised and tourist-dominated. It is dressing because there is nothing English left in it, except the facades, and is a witness to the shallow need of Americans for everywhere to be the same.

I walked through into Irving Street, and saw that the little garden round Irving’s statue was more or less fresh and green, especially the bed of flowers and definite sections of the grass. I presume there is underground watering. Going alone past the main Post Office, I was pleased to see a youth coming into the P.O., with a P.O. badge, and carrying a sack of post. I suppose he’d cleared a pillar-box very nearby. Nice to think he wasn’t a computer.

Then there was The Strand, - when was I there last? Long enough for the memories to be more potent than usual. But that was soon spiced away by seeing that Petula Clark was excitingly taking over in Sunset Boulevard.

Two no. 9’s were in evidence. Managed to get on the second – I can’t run at all anymore, - to find the upstairs empty except for one other person. It did fill up, but gradually. We went quickly through T. Sq and Pall Mall, up into Picc. No difficulty. We passed Straw Park and I noted the bench for porters to rest their packages on is there. The only sizable stop was at Ken Church St. and the whole the journey was exactly like an ordinary rush hour journey, and I was in H’smith by ten to seven, to do my shopping.

On the News, a famous gangster was introduced on the Terrace of the Commons in prison for 20 years! Which was he? He was not identified, so one could guess which had the criminal face. Imagine that even ten years ago.

Tuesday September 23 1995

Now, this morning as vivid, physically, a dream as any, of coming down and finding all D’s letters to Lalla, thrust through the letter box, - M.Rd, of course crumpled, D’s writing very clear. After pulling them out and piling them up – so many, I thought – found Lalla in back d-room, ‘Now this is very foolish’ and remained cool, always annoying to her. Showed her out, shut door, and then found D. was in, dressed. Smoking. Together we called Lalla back, who was now with someone, Donald? a female friend of hers? and together we showed her how we treat such incontinent gestures. Now this is not symbolic at all.

Really heavy downpour – lovely. Triplets first day at school on TV, aged five or six, family interviewed, two little girls sat up straight, with favorite toys in front of them, and ate dutifully, and gave dutiful answers. The boy chewed the edge of the table throughout, left the picture before the end, and when asked which bit of his first day at school he liked, he said ‘Lunchtime.’

I don’t suppose that D. wrote any letters to Lalla, certainly not more than half a dozen notes, if that.

No sign of the telephone-man, that’s three days out of order.

Wednesday September 6 1995

To Whiteley’s, to see film, found it is now £5.75. Too much for me. There had been no sign from the telephone company, so rang 151, the out-of-order number, from the telephone at Whitely’s. It rang for quite a number of rings and then cut out. Oh dear, I thought, it’s isn’t free as it is on the home line. Tried once more, after seeing I couldn’t afford the cinema, with a coin and got quite a polite man who said they went out to St D Rd. at twenty to four, so I just missed them. When I got back, the ‘phone was on again, but the cover in the road had not been disturbed – I think. So why ‘went out’?

Rang Hazel, who was rather short, and said we’d speak tomorrow, so I could tell there was a low grade social difficulty. Rang Mary, who, much to my amusement, had not noticed, and rather unusually and sweetly justified herself, quite logically, I need hardly say. Rang Roy and M and left a message, as with K whose machine was on, thank goodness, so my head remained on my shoulders.

Rang Sharron after dinner, about quarter to nine. She was a bit drunk, she said, and she was a bit merry. We had a delightful talk, and she reassured me about her heavy curses, though I must keep a watch on it, as I’m not sure she’s doing the right thing.

K rang, from my message and to my amazement mildly attacked me for telling Sh. that he’d met a chemistry student on his last night… She’d rung him! Had she reproached him? He wondered whether I’d told her he’d gone back for a second week… ‘I want to tell her carefully, she’s fragile.’ I don’t know what he or she is thinking of. The confusions are manifold. There has been Sonia, and her married man, and does she imagine he goes to Portugal and speaks to nobody? And if she’s fragile, in what direction? Hoping to get back to him? They’ve been finished for a year – he said he didn’t want to ‘get back together,’ and separated for two. In which case, is it kind of him to treat her with kid gloves, if this means her being sustained in her need to get him back. And after all, she’s fucking a married man. I hope there is no element of ‘She can’t get over me.’ After all, R and others must have heard about Maria….

Thursday September 7 1995

Rang Janet, now the ‘phones back, things are moving well with her flat, and I think she’ll back in by next week. She is broke, not surprising to me, but she shouldn’t be, with her business. She should be rolling in it with the clients she’s got, but she doesn’t charge enough.

Hazel rang, and as well as the usual chat, we agreed about the difficulty of getting detail out of people, especially men. So many people look at you incredulously if you ask for details of food, drink and clothes in the tale of an evening.

How hideous man can be. I can never think of Tahiti without horror of what it once must have been, paradise. Suddenly I found myself, on the news, looking at Papeete, the usual ribbon development of shops and garages and concrete now being burnt and smashed in riots. Horror upon horror, literally for once.

Lots of film of poor little Prince William – first day at Eton. He looks a sunny-natured boy with some charm, but now that the new royals are grand-children, as it were, I am struck much more forcibly by the pathos and crippling self-consciousness of their position. It is awful enough going away to school without golden brackets in which he is enclosed. If he gets a crush on someone, he will wonder if the someone will go to The News of the World. No wonder Royals still get married, how else would one feel remotely safe, putting your cock in someone’s hand. And not always then. Three hundred or so photographers and reporters there – he has a nice smile, thank goodness, or where would he be? – but despite the exhaustive reportage, I have seen nowhere that he signed the book with his left-hand. Really, popular reporters are masters at missing, - yes, the fascinating details. First, years ago, almost in my childhood, (tho’ it wasn’t going on at my rather advanced and expensive prep-school, tho’ I daresay it was elsewhere) people were forced to write with the right hand. Second, I think I am right in saying that Geo VI was so forced, and that’s why he developed a stammer. Certainly many stammers have come from that cause. Third, it is a tribute to someone’s good sense that it has not yet been mentioned as a liberal strike on the part of the present-day family. Fourth, he has unhappily inherited the rather coarse hands of his family. I wonder where they come from, P. Phil, P. Char, The Queen even – Guelph I expect. It’s all very sinister.

Watched and taped Roy’s new series Backup. Not my kind of thing at all, but I do see that the action/character is much more palatable than in most such series. Getting the squad to dig for one of the serial killer’s victims in the shit of a pig-sty sounded the authentic Mitchell note. Rang and had a jolly chat. He’s doing ep. 1,6,7,8. Good.

Friday September 8 1995

Have picked up again the big volumes of Trollop’s short/long stories, and finishing it. ‘The Telegraph Girl’ made me cry as T at his best always does, by his integrity and straight forward simple feeling.

Coming back from shopping in H’smith put my travel permit in the automatic gate, and like a switch, the middle-aged ticket inspector started to growl ‘We’ll Gather Lilacs’ rather out of tune, and as if it hadn’t been quite wound up.

How little happens to me these days.

Perhaps that’s why I’m rather happy and tranquil.

Saturday September 9 1995

Two dreams this a.m. slightly less boring than some. Daniel Day Lewis, - were we in Hamlet, or a play at all? – connection with me, making love to me and me saying ‘I’d like to have a quiet evening just kissing.’ He said Yes and then didn’t. (Typical behavior of D.D.L, I should think, from what I hear). Later, after rehearsal, flicked me with a whip or sword and told me never to handle things in front of him. I had two folder pieces of plastic, used for something in the play. I put them. He flicked again, because I was still carrying a pair of white gloves, part of the costume. And so was he. Saw D. later, and said ‘That man is a selfish monster.’ ‘Oh, yes, the full range.’

D.D.L was in the Radio Times this week, because they were re-showing My Beautiful Launderette, in which he’s gay. I suppose me dreaming about D.D.L. has not the same significance of an ordinary person doing so. I might easily have worked with him or, indeed, met him, as S knows him, or did, quite well, I think, so he has no icon-like standing.

The second dream was after reading the papers. I think my dreams, at least now, generally happen in light sleep, just before I wake or when I doze off again.

This time, K and Sharron were somewhere unidentified, but his, and I was taking him to a play in the evening and then there were Julian and two others, some distance away, walking about on the orange mud of an emptied canal in Cambridge dining-hall, but part of the same place. Did that odd thing of partly making up and thinking quite purposefully that I was in reality – I could remember the dream – and apparently rational worry over how I was going to pay for his ticket. By the way, in the ‘place’ he already had all my furniture, most irritatingly completely rearranged.

Talking of dreams, I was idly considering ghosts and ‘signs’ and visitations and so on. Quite often, lying in bed, awake or I think I am, and I hear a crisp tap on my bed-room door, sometimes there are various other creakings and steps and so on. What capital I could make out of such things if I were as dim and muddled-minded and sentimental as the followers of ‘magic’ and ‘spiritualism’ and so on and so on. Because equally convincingly a telephone rings loud, clear, on my bedside table, for a couple of rings. With one deaf ear, I can’t hear my real telephone in the sitting room, even with one door open. Such noises are one-second dreams.

In the Trollope Vol, ‘The Lady of Launay’, apart from loving it, interested me from the name of the heroine, Bessy. The story was published in 1878, nine years before mummy was born, and therefore, tho’ she was Bessie, the name was a trifle more fashionable than I thought. Some prog., I can’t remember what, had Valse Grise as its music, found it was by Maurice Jaubert

Sunday September 10 1995

Hazel rang again, to my surprise. She was a bit breathless, in her world, rather sensational. She’d been getting the spare room ready for the friend from Bristol with cancer. My blood ran a bit cold when she said that the doctors had given her friend ‘a whole morning.’ And now, ‘a bone marrow test has been sprung on her.’ I sensed that Hazel is a bit beside herself. ‘So I thought I’d ring you for a chat.’ Hm.

I have now finished the ‘Trollope shorter fiction’, - ‘Catherine Carmichael’ is quite a bleak affair – from his Australian son, I think - now I’ve picked up Lear’s letters again. I don’t know quite why I stopped over them, - I was a bit low then, three? years ago. Struck by, ‘In the 1830s, ‘as full of beggars as Russell Square used to be.’ His use of dashes makes some of his letters quite difficult to read.

Monday September 11 1995 Tuesday September 12 1995

Well, well, rather tired, especially the legs, as if I’ve done a ten-mile walk. Of course, K’s invitation was for the night before Mary L was coming to lunch, of course, that’s Mary’s luck coming into play. He rang at twenty past six to say are you coming? As the last thing he’d said was that it might be Monday or Tuesday, so I’d put two queries in my diary, I said Well… ‘Oh, shit, didn’t I … well, what are you doing?’ ‘Nothing’ ‘See you later.’ So having been to Selfr, to pay Alliance, and back to H’Smith for a second time (first for my pension) to do all the shopping for Mary, and sinking into the sofa twenty minutes before, rest-less, bathless, gin-less, I trailed to Arsenal, to a heavenly funny evening.

He dumped a large bottle of duty-free on the sofa early on, and I was much amused that it was news to him that such gin has 10% more alcohol in it, - he knows about it being so much cheaper, £7. Does it still have Tanqueray as well as Gordon on it? I olde-wordly hope so.

He told me all about the work – I can’t possibly chart it, but it fills his life and I am so grateful. A really big advert. Designer whose name I never caught, ‘Is thrilled-gob-smacked with my work’ and he is obviously making an impact in all sorts of useful places. I wish I could capture more details, but I must say, in my own defense, the world he moves in is so strange to me that I cannot pick up half-references, and he is not good at ‘pointing’ important facts or names. Even if I had a tape of his talk, it would take me a few playing. -

We had a bit of a chat about Sharron. He is still insistent that he wanted to tell her about Arlette himself, ‘as she is still very fragile.’ I said I thought my telling her lightly, softened the blow, and that, in any case, a year later, she had no real right to mind, or ask. She is after all, having an affair herself! We’ll see.

We talked of Nigel. The farcical tinge to the situation is not reduced by the news that he’s going to New Zealand in December for six months.

And finally we talked of, all about, Arlette. She met him at the airport, but any attempt to preserve chronology after that escapes me, because it escaped him. So I’ll list events hap- hazardly. Her mother wouldn’t see him, and disapproved obviously. He did meet her brother, Pedro, who didn’t seem keen either. They had the weekend away, by her pretending to her mother, that she was going with another couple to a camp site. She was showing him the way – I symapthised with her having been yelled at over a hot map by him myself – in his hired car, they found themselves stuck on a sandy track going nowhere, ‘Since I did the house, as you know, nothing like that can faze me any more.’ We walked to the campsite, I said We’ll find a man with a tractor. It wasn’t like one of our sites, there was bar and a good café.’ I said ‘I’m starving, let’s eat.’ She said, or rather screamed, How can you eat at a time like this? We found a man later, and he charged £7.50 to drag the car back.’

He showed me some snaps of her. Not flattering because her nose is biggish, she was making faces, and going blah at the camera, which made it look bigger. But happily there was a shot of her in a ‘phone booth from behind in a v. smart bikini, black with white dots like a guinea-fowl, and she has a really beautiful figure, beautiful. He said, ‘She’s a bit vague and dreamy and sometimes not there. She takes ages to answer.’ Well, she’s 21 and in a dream.

They made love copiously and often throughout; the high spot seems to have been, at the Hunting Lodge Hotel. ‘Why was it called the hunting lodge?’ ‘Well, it was a hunting lodge,’ ‘No – I mean English.’ Interesting, because I don’t think it was so named in a crass commercial way. It was run by two big middle-aged woman, only six rooms, wonderful cooking, and I think £3? pounds a night. (Close connection with England may be the origin – our oldest ally, all that.) ‘I don’t know, everything seemed to go on like a film, fitting into place, there was an outdoor swimming pool, and an indoor one, so warm, we made love on every sofa in the foyer and lodge, it was after two and the old ladies had left us to it, and then we swam again, and then we were on a seat overlooking the bay, and at three o’clock there was an enormous fire-work display.’

It turns out it was a once-a-year celebration of the town’s centenary? What did he call it, nothing definite, Alero something like that. It was a bit of an idyll. ‘You must have been knackered.’ ‘I was. She wouldn’t let me pay for her to come here. She’s never been out of Portugal.’

It also came out that she won’t hear about university till this next week. Well, we’ll see. He’s certainly not overturned yet. He took his guitar – imagine.

Oh, he described swimming on some beach, and the waves were too big even for his swimming expertise. I kept saying that, well, it’s the Atlantic with nothing between you and the States. Columbus?

Oh, and we had an hilarious chat about the Cat and Cat Diary. I read him the new bits and then he asked me to read him the new bits. He screamed. I was very struck to find K. turning literary critic and saying, ‘You’re developing a style.’ One hopes. He loved Sh.’s idea of a little book with drawings. Wants the narrator to be out of work actor. No, too esoteric for cat people. It must be father figure coping with children’s cat and lives. Oh, that boy.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 136

September 12 1995 - September 11 1995.

Tuesday September 11 1995.

Of course the one night K had free was the night before the one day when Mary L could come to lunch. I took care not to be too late or too hung over, as there was all the washing up to be done and some cleaning, despite the innate strain of Mary’s presence, not to mention luck. You cannot be sure what may not be summoned by chance? to confirm her jaundiced view of human nature. I had said to her that I would be at the tube-station at quarter past twelve, because of that time I found her sitting on the front steps – the only time a guest has escaped me, and I still don’t know how she did it! I decided it would be better to get some more cheese and fruit, so got to the station at about twelve to pop to Tesco’s and back, so as to be actually on the platform to take the heavy parcel of borrowed books out of her hands at the first possible moment. Mary got out of the carriage straight at me. At least I had the presence of mind to pretend all was meant. So one bit of cheese and a couple of bananas. However, she is much milder now, and there was quite a lot of praise here and there. Among the returned books was, to my amazement, A. Berkeley’s Jumping Jenny, carefully wrapped in blue paper, ‘Because I heard that those war- time penguins are quite valuable now.’ A great concession to poshness. No tiresomeness except an interminable story about a wardrobe girl at Dundee. The sad thing is it was a fascinating tale, but not with all the ‘and then I took the bus,’ ‘And then I looked around the council-estate.’ etc etc bloody etc. Agnes lived with her uncle. Suddenly she wasn’t there. Pauline Jameson! said I must go and see what’s the matter. She ‘phoned Mary, and when M. got there, Agnes was on the mattress on the floor, ‘delirious’, having a nervous breakdown and covered in bruises. P.J. slept on the mattress with her, and M on two chairs, with door locked. In the morning they saw the wicked uncle, who was a hunchback! go out, and ring an ambulance. The Dundee board pad for a fortnight’s nursing home. Pauline and Mary went off to do two shows of As You, with P. as Rosalind, and M. as Celia. Then, I think, Agnes was in London, doing something, at the time, of course, of Quiet Weekend. ‘Then I lost touch with her,’ – my heart leapt, I thought I could go and shit. Twenty years later, M was on a bus, and the clippie smiled so nicely as if – lengthy description of how M didn’t manage to speak to her because the ‘bus was so full.’ Twenty years later again, M was at Kingston, in touch with a TV set, a rare occurrence, and a saw a prog. about a terrace of houses with people being evicted, - one of them was Agnes, who had taken up drawing after a bad accident which had crippled one arm, when she was thrown from end to end of her bus. She was worrying about her possessions fitting in to the place the council had found for her. The walls were papered with her drawings, which were all of the wicked uncle.

As I went down to shit, I said ‘Jumping Jenny’s still quite good, don’t you think?’ ‘I couldn’t finish it, much too slow for me.’

Wednesday September 13 1995

Darling Edna’s b’day. Left a message on Roy and Marian’s machine, after seeing that Castles is not having a second series, saying I bet she was seventy-five per cent pleased and twenty-five per cent disappointed. She rang back to say I was ‘Spot-on, it’s like finishing with a boy-friend you weren’t all that keen on in the first place.’

In the p.m. eventually got to ‘While You Were Sleeping’. Hm. Rather disappointing after Janet’s praise. Sandra Bullock charming and inventive, but Bill Pullman has the hang-dog rueful air which reminds you that he always and quite rightly plays the one who doesn’t get the girl. ‘Rueful’ and ‘Hang-dog’ are not good equipment for getting the girl. And I’m afraid there was a basic flaw in the plot, in that it did not convince that she would be accepted as the fiancé or that she would have confessed to not being, much earlier. I enjoyed it mildly, lasted to the end, few laughs.

Rang Tim again and got Jason. T is driving for a living, left a message with Jason, with little hope of it getting to T.

Sharron rang later, asking whether we were doing anything this week. When I said no money, she suggested I came to lunch on Sunday. I am afraid I was evasive, even darling Sh. I cannot go out for Sunday lunch and probably not eat till four. She sounded a bit flayed.

Thursday September 14 1995

Forgot to record that, when I went down the road to FP Rd, for some whisky, for the first time since the hot weather, I was interested to see that the little shop on the corner of Beryl Rd, and St. D’s, empty for so long, is being rebuilt. It was an unsuccessful minimarket, its sign painted rather amateurishly, the Ee-Tee Mini-Market – I think it closed in about 1988, it was the sort of pathetic closure, with goods left on the shelves here and there, and bills and writs on the mat. The interesting thing is that it’s being turned into a house. The door across the corner is now a solid brick-wall, the shop-windows have gone, bricked up with sash windows in the middle. At least I suppose it’s a house. I’ll keep a look-out.

A wonderfully snobby brochure arrived, from an insurance firm called Hiscox. ‘If you own a higher value house, with even a modest amount of art, antiques…’ In general, big insurance companies do not like homes that are out of the ordinary…

Going on with Edward Lear. So much of the letters consist of rather leaden description of scenery, a certain amount of architecture, not enough clothes and people and food and far too many ‘lovely’s’

Tim rang. Sounds all right, says the borough has some nice bits, but mostly rough bits. Mark and Cecilia have bought a house in Walthamstow for £68,000. It’s just round the corner from Blackhorse Rd, and looking at the map, round there looks a possible place to live. T said that it would never be gentrified, in his opinion, as it was, had always been and always would be, very East End. That may be true, but then think what people said to Clapham in 1961, Battersea Rise is now a maze of boutiques and smart restaurants. In 1961 its highlight was a used-tyre shop.

The event of the day was a long letter from Sharron, its main news being that she’s started an affair with Alex, her flat-mate. If I could be bothered, I’d find the entry that prophesied that very thing. It’s curious, her main complaint is terrible loneliness, although she is having an affair with two men, sharing a flat with three others, working in a studio by four or five others, and seeming to enjoy a fair social life. I mean, I know that’s not the point, but she can seldom be alone, if she doesn’t want to be.

Now, she says (i) emotionally she’s on a knife-edge, (ii) she definitely does not want to get back with K, although she wants to see him more ‘To work through the unresolved feelings quicker’, (iii) how can she break with Simon ‘As I know there is no real future in it.’ (iv) affair with Alex since July. ‘Incredibly exciting secret “liaisons”, enjoying being deceptive. Affair becoming very intense’ and only this week ‘I feel I might be falling in love with Alex.’

All the usual about ‘But I can’t in case I’m hurt again as I couldn’t…’ What a widespread delusion it is that you can preserve yourself against hurt. Risk and hurt are only synonyms for love and sex. I wrote back and said what a lot of unfinished business. I’ll have the poor girl round next week and see. I find it hard to understand people who don’t know what they want.

As I said, some months ago, I’ve always know where my happiness was.

Friday September 15 1995

Another girl of 15 raped and murdered, in Nuneaton, just out to post a letter, two hundred yards from her house. Hideously, found by her father in the playground under some swings or such, where he’d probably played with her. She’d been stabbed as well. I’ve said it before, and I say it again, can’t we have a study of these men, who do seem to conform to some sort of pattern – loners, thirtyish, living with elderly parents and so on- so that there is a little more warning. I’m sure I could tell something about them if they were anywhere near me.

About three-thirty, it went like night. I had to turn the lights on. Rang Mary L during it, she was sitting in the sun.

I enjoyed ‘Friends’ and ‘Frasier’, the best of American comedy at the moment. Frasier: ‘Whenever I’m wrong the world makes a little less sense.’

The row over Paul Condon saying the majority of muggings were done by black boys, rumbles on. If only people would concentrate on the facts. A few personal facts. I had never heard the word ‘mugging’, until it began to be used in connection with racist incidents in London, and elsewhere. I remember writing to K. Whitehorn to protest at sensational reports of something which happed in New York, and might then be copied here. Anti-racists protested against any classification, despite responsible observations saying that mugging was a black man’s crime. The nearest crime has ever come to me, was on two occasions in the ‘70s. D had her note-case snatched in the cobblers. Later, on her way home from the Private Affair, she had her bag snatched. Both times the thief was a black teenager.

Saturday September 16 1995

Very dark and very wet. So was my shit, so I’ve stayed in bed. Probably the rotting raspberries. Am now, seven o’c, gin and watering. Two slightly more interesting things in the Lear letters. Sir John Dean Paul was convicted of fraud and transported in 1855. I saw in the Irving Club in 1951 Brenda Dean Paul, ‘The famous drug addict.’ In those days she seemed to be the only one. Heredity? bad blood?

In the same year he was staying with Nevills at Woodbury House, Stoke Newington, ‘Six miles out of town.’ Nevill Rd runs near the bottom of Tim’s old road, Belgrade Rd.

R rang to thank me for my card. Had called round at K’s to pick up some things. C4 people just leaving. Could see how busy K was. How I envy him the way he just drops in…

Last night of Proms perfectly behaved after request to make noise only between…

Sunday September 17 1995

Diarrhoea, but a good dinner late.

Later.

Rang Sharron to arrange our talk. She is working in Ken High St. for Wed, Thurs and Fri, at £100 a day. I said why didn’t she come and stay? She said, fairly apologetically, that she got her allergy last time she stayed. It’s no good pretending that such an answer doesn’t irritate me. It’s not at all the slur on my spare-room – the whole flat is full of dust – and damp. No, it’s the turning down of a highly convenient arrangement, especially in view of the tube-strike on Wed and Thurs, for a possible, and suspect, ailment. In the same way, but a hugely greater extent, I would have no time, or patience, or further truck with, someone who allowed themselves to be off, on a first-night or any other time, for something neurotic like an allergy. She is, I fear, too self-absorbed, as her letter reveals. I know we all are when in love, and most conversations comforting suffering lovers have a very wearying circular quality. I shall just have to see whether she has any real central core.

Monday September 18 1995

Forgot to say that Tim W. has a new girlfriend, an actress called Kate Davis, whom he met when she was working behind the bar at his local in Stoke Newington. I said I supposed she had brassy blonde hair and a big bust, ‘Just the opposite, in both cases.’

Watched a bit of an enormous 26 part prog. called The People’s Century. Pre-1914 film shown at proper speed, the Tsarina nodding her head as she walked along, quite mechanically. I love the completeness of that pre-14 world. For all its unfairness, the unity of clothes and architecture and ritual. Really people have very little sense of history or historical appropriateness, nowadays. They showed a very interesting film of a French beach in 1912, - in colour. I would like to know what process was used, perhaps hand coloured afterwards, I don’t know how accurate the colours are, but they certainly don’t swear at what I know about fashion at the time, when brighter harder clolours had come in, through Bakst etc. and Paul Poirst. What really amused me was the music some idiot chose to accompany this film. Instead of the rag-time or Richard Strauss they should have used, what did we get – ‘I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls.’ How they’d have laughed! And then the thirteen million immigrants to America, like Chaplin’s film without the laughs, and oh the horror of that terrible status looming up, - certainly a sign of the future. I suppose the first symbol of all those sales of t-shirts and soft toys around a commercial venture.

I found myself putting a ^ to insert a ‘n’ into my shopping-list. Scholarship run mad.

Tuesday September 19 1995

Went to get my hair cut. Wore a tie and a jacket for the first time since - when? Sweltered. Although the tube-strike has been called off - so I’ll have to go to lunch with Hazel – both my lines were a bit off today, the Piccadilly much reduced, the District erratic. On my way back, went up to H. Rd to be sure of quiet seat back. Tiresome.

That quite nice dry Spanish wine at Tesco’s reduced to £1.99. Got two.

Rang Janet. Film is that wretched space thing. How can anyone be interested?

Tried to buy some tapers in candle shop. They’d never heard the word.

Wednesday September 20 1995

K rang at 11.0ish. Oh so sweet and chatty, and I heard it all. Oh the work. He was pleased at Sharron’s news. He’d had C4, The BBC, Granada and the advertising all making suggestions and driving him mad. Or something like that! To our great amusement he is going away for the day on Thursday to see Ernie and Marjorie, who are house sitting for some friends in – Bournemouth. ‘Shall I drop in and see Lalla? It might be next door.’ This of course, was last night at eleven. It’s so lovely when he rings up like that. It’s like having a blood transfusion. Not that I’ve ever had a blood transfusion.

Dreamt this a.m. about meeting K’s Simon. I was in bed, receiving him. He sometimes had small uneven teeth and was sometimes balding. As I’ve never met him, I suppose he kept changing as my subconscious, if that’s what it is, kept wondering what he’s like.

Extraordinary about the tapers. After all, it’s an extra sale. ‘Buy all yr. tapers to light all yr. candles.’ I’d better try a church shop.

So I shoe-horned myself out of bed and into a jacket and tie for lunch with Hazel. So strange and poignant, the restaurant is on the same site where we used to dine in those perfervid days when D was living in Brompton Square. You see, the fifties were romance to me. Then it was ‘a restaurant.’ Carpets, soft lights, waiters in tails or white coats, a ‘French’ cuisine, wonderful wines by today’s – or my day’s – standards. I believe, daringly, they had pink tables-cloths and napkins. I can’t remember the décor, though I’m sure it was drawing-room wall-paper and twin wall-lights. I never noticed what I ate on those weekends.

Now it’s a Pierre Victoire. No décor, plain boards, but excellent service from very young and probably underpaid, waiters and waitresses. Paper napkins, but then… three courses, three choices for each. We both had cream of broccoli soup. It was good, but I was a bit amazed when H asked for the salt and sprinkled it very liberally. I thought I was fairly hot on the salt front, and I’d found the soup just right. She had the liver, some explanation Geoffrey can’t have it because of cholesterol, I had Baked Fillet of Whitting. I love Whitting, but it is not all that easy to eat, because it flakes so easily. Makes it cheap. I wasn’t clear what her ‘sweet’ was, - mine pear tart, custard tart with slices of pear under. That set lunch was £4.90. With a ½ bot of white wine for me, - she didn’t want a drink because she was driving her train back to Taunton – a coffee for me but not her, a £20 note easily covered it. Dear Hazel, wine sends her asleep and coffee keeps her awake, so she has neither. Odd. And oh dear, I can’t hear most of what she says now, my deaf ear and her quiet voice. A lot of it is of no interest, about her family, but still…

Dear little Paul R rang, a bit late. I was tired, and perhaps a bit short. His diffidence is out of the ordinary, even by my standards. He still has the bottle of whisky he wanted to give K for use of the studio. I said I’d ring at 11.0 tomorrow. Why?

I am still ploughing through the Edward Lear letters. Leaden description and awful factiousness. Well, anyone who can’t see that a limerick must have a pay off…

Thursday September 21 1995

Meant to ring Paul R at 11.0 but didn’t. Late lunch and early bed.

Friday September 22 1995

Dream this a.m. I had vertigo on the way to the canteen on a film location, as the ‘way’ was to walk along half a railway-track over a bottomless chasm. K came up behind me, I didn’t see him but it must have been him because nobody else would bother. It felt like the swimming-lesson felt. Later, to get out of the pub/canteen I had to try to get past a cow’s head on the floor, it’s teeth snapping savagely in all directions. For some reason K was not there to help me with the cow…

In a discussion about the ‘psychology’ (sic) of supermarkets it was revealed to me that the first dept. is always fresh fruit and vegetables, as it gives a fresh feeling to the public and makes them feel good. Well, it’s never made me ‘feel’ anything, only the inconvenience of the most squashable and delicate items going into the bottom of the basket. Tesco’s has had £15 million or something more profit from their loyalty cards, whatever they may be. Advertising campaigns are not aimed at people like me, - just as well as it would never occur to me to read such announcements.

Decided on mush. and anch., baked haddock and choc. brandy whip for Sharron. Did a bit of cleaning, and was well ready when she got here at eight-fifteen. She’d brought nothing this time, not even any wine, just as well, as she’s hard up. She talked fairly fruitfully at first about finishing with Simon, and about Alec asking her to go to France with him. It seems he has a glimmering of sense. He speaks fluent Italian and Spanish (so that’s why he’s going to France…) and is going to teach English to support himself. He suggests that she does the same. Hm, I wish she could go, but I don’t think she’s brave enough.

And then later on I got half an hour of dispraise and criticism of K, a great deal about his offhand manner, on the ‘phone for instance, his selfishness and self-centeredness, ‘He has to be in control.’ And later still, ‘He has no real friends.’ None of it is true. Well, I mean, one of his real friends was sitting opposite her. I fear it is simply her expression of her adverse reaction to a stronger will than her own, not to mention a greater and more demanding talent. I let her go on, as I know she finds it a release, the nearest thing to saying it to him. I expect she pictures me telling him, tho’ probably without bringing it to the surface of her mind. It also had a tinge of the usual ‘You think too highly of…’ etc. etc.

Well, I think I straightened things out a little. She seems to have made up her mind to finish with Simon, which partly solves her tendency to wallow in having half dozen things wrong at once, all insoluble if you think about them in a mass. The one point I made, and kept making, was to look at each problem or decide which to deal with first. Goodness, the number of times I said it.

She kissed and hugged most warmly when she left, so perhaps I helped a little. And of course she never noticed my resentment of her K criticisms, - because I managed not to show any - she didn’t notice the extra week in the cat dairy. I suppose people who never read don’t examine the text! I think I see why he left her now, - she is too diffuse and weak to be any use to him in his work.

That of course does not prevent her being a warm perceptive and lovable ‘human-being’ who does not exist to be of use to him in his work.

Poor darling, nothing changes.

Saturday September 23 1995

Had a bad night, did not sleep till 5.30, slept till 12.0. This is to me a further indication to me that I can only do one thing in a day.

Out briefly to the shops with just enough money to buy a ½ bot of whisky, 1 small tonic and a packet of quite good sausages for £1.69. A good sausage-roll is heaven to me, - but these are only sausagea.

Re-reading, no, reading for the first time, A Book of the Play by Dutton Cook. He’s one of the dramatic critics who got published in the 19th century and just kept a record of the theatre going. Hazlitt, Lamb, G.H. Lewes, John Morley, Dutton Cook, Joseph Knight, Archer, Shaw. Though not with the dazzling gifts of some of these, he was unlike most 19th century writers, in having an academic turn of mind. So this two vols., with a chapter on most aspects of the theatre and its history, is accurate, as far as I can check it mentally, perceptive, and illuminating. They are the only important theatre books of mine I didn’t read when I brought them. I was in Paris doing that ghastly commercial in August. I made sweat marks up and down my shirt-sleeves and had to change my shirt every take. In the lunch-break, probably at 2.30, I went into the book-shop more or less next door, and there they were. Just imagine how much cheaper they were than in England, when one considers two vols. on the French 19th century theatre in French in English bookshops. Green cloth, gold printed with a figure of comedy and tragedy.

Sunday September 24 1995

A half-page article in the Observer about the award to the Royal Court from the lottery of £16 million to rebuild the theatre. Of course I want the Royal Court to go on and of course I want that dear little auditorium and proportions to be preserved. I’m sure that a lot of Royal C supporters of every level and kind over the years, have no idea of the contribution of the Victoria intimacy and acoustic to the success of many doubtfully viable plays. It’s the ‘avant-garde’ equivalent of the Criterion. At one point in the article it said, ‘The sight of an auditorium somewhat hanged.’ The audi. is to be preserved untouched, but perhaps suspended? Misprint?

Long call from Justin mostly about film as usual. I thought he was having me over to dinner while his landlords were away, before he went to some new digs. That was a couple of months ago, and no dinner has materialised. Of course I never expect it to, as he is limpid as a little trickle of water. And I am relieved not to trek to F. Park and back. It’s a slightly fraught area. Now he really does seem to be moving. As long as I keep the conversation to films, it’s all right. Interesting that his judgment of films can be quite good, whereas his judgment on almost everything else is so questionable.

When Hazel rang, she had galloped ‘The P. Lady in Russia’ in one go. Though as she said quite rightly, it’s E. M. Delafield in Russia, not The P. Lady. She wants to lend it to her friend, Joy, and possibly to Violet Powell. I can’t imagine V.P. would quote it in her life without having read it all, but you never know nowadays, especially with upper middle class amateurs.

What are Carla Lane’s and all the other hysterical animal-lover’s comments, on a slow motion sequence of a cheater chasing, catching and killing. With a bite through the throat, of a gazelle, and then she and her cubs chomping through the delicious juicy fresh flesh?

Monday September 25 1995

S. suddenly rang. I said, ‘I thought you were coming back tomorrow.’ ‘Yesterday.’ So I’m seeing him tonight at Rules. Lunch with Mary tomorrow – bother. And then lunch with John N on Wednesday. It was very nearly lunch with Janet here. Happily she cried off and just had coffee on her way to Stephanie Powers. She told me of an astonishing coincidence. The downstairs flat, to be let for six months, has been let to one of the daughters of Stephanie Powers’ husband by his first wife. This is quite independent of Janet working with Stephanie.

Tuesday September 26 1995

Rules is not really what it was. Some virtue has gone out of it, no doubt sucked dry by hordes of American tourists making even the air ‘quaint’ and ‘old world’ by their fatal self-consciousness. It was always a bit spoilt by being permanently full. The waiters were usually a bit cheeky and casual. I remember Jack Gatti saying, forty years ago, without looking up from the menu ‘Go away and fetch me a real waiter.’ The food was simple and straightforward, all the English things. They are all still on the menu, but the menu is a large piece of plastic like a pizza parlour. The cooking of my grouse was reasonable, but it was a rather mean half grouse, some gratinee pots ‘You used to get a whole grouse’. The potted shrimps were still in the shape of the pot, and I thought for an awful moment they would still be frozen. However, I spread them out easily – they looked a bit grey but were quite eatable. P. shrimps should either still be in their pot or spread out temptingly by the waiter. Then I had a strawberry ice, so it was a very traditional meal. So funny, S. had to ask me what a teal was.

Not quite so full of plans as usual, which is sometimes just as well, as something, even with him, I find the sketching out of a project a little wearisome when I know nothing of the people or music or the script involved. (I have always hated being told a story at anything like length.) ‘Enfants du Paradis’ goes into rehearsal in November and opens in January. I’m quite surprised. I’m afraid I have little interest in it. If something is done perfectly, doing it again can only be less perfect. Whether it will be a success, I have no idea. I suppose the vast majority of the audience will neither have heard of or seen the film. Every actor or actress he mentioned, simply served to remind me how far they would fall below the original.

He’s been asked to do a production at the ENO. Offered The Coronation of Poppoea and L’Italin in Algieri, not interested in either, but better than first suggestion which was HMS Pinafore. The dreaded Dennis Marks came to see Trittico. ‘A loud-mouthed Philistine’ was one of the milder comments.

Said he must ring K – ‘I’ve not seen him for – oh, for a year’ – because there is apparently some sort of gala matinee at the Lyric Ham, for what anniversary? He wants a bit of the Infernal Machine music. He’s doing a bit of Love for Love, ‘The famous production.’ I told him I don’t think there was a ‘famous’ prod. The ‘famous’ Restoration prods., re-establishing Restoration comedies as an important genre, at H’smith were The Way of the World and The Beaux’ Stratagem, both of them owing much to Edith. I haven’t looked it up yet, but I would guess it was a Sunday night Phoenix Soc. one off.

He also told me at some length about a musical that he’s been working on for some time He began by telling me that B’way is really dead at last, with Neil Simon and A. Miller having deserted it etc. etc., and therefore the musical in England etc. etc. and ended up saying it was to be done on B’way. Based on the same world-famous children’s stories of which I have never heard, by, or about Zuess, Suss, or Suezz or something. The composer is Gerald? Who is famous in some sort of way, as in conducting Clinton’s inauguration ceremony, was it? I can’t now remember whether it was the first draft of this musical or something else, but when it was rejected, he collapsed and promptly developed leukemia. Well, I suppose you can, as my Uncle John, who I never met, died of a leauk. during the war after crashing in his plane. Still, not a very promising temperament. This is what I meant by the wearisome sketch of a project. I had no point of reference at all expect S. Added to which, I don’t see S getting a commercial musical right – he’s never had any sort of feeling or knowledge of popular music. Popular enough I mean to draw in the necessary numbers.

He and Chris are alright with each other now, - it’s six years. Their holiday went well despite being twice interrupted by Ace Ventura, once to do some dubbing, two people flown over after he refused to fly to L.A., for half a day’s work, and once actually to some wild shots ‘to fit in to the end of the film.’ An Italian crew did that in Rome, two days was it? in a hotel costing £500 a night. Really Americans. They are getting on better, I suspect, partly because Chris has grown up a bit and isn’t such an ass.

So today, in the rain, I trailed to Annette Kerr’s house. Wait for a 266 at H’smith, than a ten minute walk in the rain on a very open and unsheltered suburban road. When I got there I rang K to say about having had dinner with S. and about the Inf. Machine. He laughed and said well, he can look through all four hours of it. Lunch was cold chicken that Annette had cooked before she went away, and salad. Cheese. I must remember that she always buys a nasty sweet hock for herself! But otherwise it was the most peaceful visit yet!

Back here, yet another addition to my social whirl when Roy rang to say they were going to take me out. ‘Would I like to go to Louis’ play at the Almeida and then out to dinner or just dinner?’ ‘Just out to dinner’ – imagine the horror, at a small theatre, I might have to meet Peter Bowles. Marian was offered yet another of her ‘drip’ parts, the wife of an alcoholic being beaten up by hubby and other horrors. R heard her say to her agent, ‘Just let any other actress up for the part know that they haven’t got a chance.’ I think she’s really sick of these ‘victim’ parts – it so unlike her. !

Wednesday September 27 1995

Lunch with John was a rather ‘traumatic’ – is that the fashionable meaningless word? – time for him, and in a way for me. He was suited and tied, as he had a meeting in the p.m. comically as it turned out, to ‘decide’ on the programme of which part was the possibility of S’s production – comical, because the first person we saw was S. lunching with his mother. He greeted us with the resigned air of a man speaking from inside a long prison sentence. She still has her white face and bright red lipstick, but looks stranger than ever. Her face looks exactly as if it’s made of wax which is beginning to gutter below the jaw-line. I shook her hand and said we’d had tea at the Savoy and how nice it was to see her again. She extended a paper-thin hand and said ‘Did we?’ with unspoken, ‘Did I care then? No. Do I care now? No.’

The moment we sat down, I saw that John was in a bit of a state. We ordered, broccoli soup and fillet of cod, no nicer than Pierre Vict. and no doubt four times the price.

His story was of Joyce, and a very dismal one it was. I may not get the time-schemes quite right. People assume you know more than you do. We knew that Joyce had had some sort of nervous break trouble before we ever met her. Yes, she was nervy and sometimes a bit frantic. Yes, she put herself down too much. But she was and is one of the most sensitive and perceptive people we’ve known, responsive to the finest shades of feeling about her. For example, her two letters after D’s death, were about the most intelligent and helpful I had. (And funny, don’t forget that ‘At least her obituary didn’t just say ‘she played hockey once for England.’) But of serious mental trouble we said nothing. However, it seems it has always been there, and twenty-five years ago – I think it must have been a bit longer – she had the sort of breakdown which sent her into Ken High St. in her nightie and she was put in Banstead Asylum for a time. We lost touch after she married Jeremy because he was so unpleasant. I remember vividly her description of Jeremy and his friends, when she had left a party in proper disgust. She married him because, she said, ‘Only someone as awful as Jeremy would want to marry me.’ Apparently there have been suicidal passages, and the other Friday she was so beside herself that John cancelled everything, rang Rosemary Hanson who went straight round. I was interested that R. Hanson is that sort of woman and that sort of friend – you never know what you may find. What they found was Joyce quite wild, having thrown a lot of things about the drawing-room. Every now and then she would go into a sort of rigor, bending over and shaking. Time schemes again – I think she has been going to the psychotherapist John went to when he had his heart attack! But I don’t really know since when, but certainly she hasn’t taken her ‘medication’ if any. (At some point she was furious with J for telling the pycho. but that may have been last time.)

However, they got her calmer. Jeremy seems not to have been about at all, just as well. The next day, the Saturday, there was to be a family party at Joyce’s to celebrate Janet’s 50th b’day. Janet is John’s sister in law, married to David, who is J’s Donald, and Janet is certainly like ‘our’ Joan, in being disliked by the family, though not at all a malicious unbalanced person, just a great mass of suburban flab, who doesn’t deserve persecution. Joyce insisted she would still do it. She has, it seems, often the power to pull herself together…

It started well, John and Simon, David and Janet, (not their 20ish year old sons, thank God, they’re dotty enough already) and John’s mother. They drank champagne, Joyce was cooking nicely dressed. Jeremy arrived, rather drunk, and straightway went into attack… ‘Why aren’t you drinking Pimm’s (perhaps this is the moment to say that they are in grave financial trouble and hideously overdrawn - but, I must emphasise, by the standard of a family with a huge family trust and plentiful private incomes.) He started needling everyone, so John, the only sane one, headed him off to make the Pimm’s, and they went out into the garden, where Jeremy said Joyce had been in a bad way for a time, and did John know the whole story? Yes, he thought he did. Her father being killed in his burning plane when she was a child etc. ‘The whole story?’ ‘When your father and mother adopted her and Sarah, your father abused her from the age of five. He would tie her down to the bed, beat her carefully, so there were no marks, and then tossed off on her back.’ At that point, Joyce came out and said ‘Dinner’s ready.’

Back over the table, Jeremy attacked again. Janet, he said, dragged her elder son maliciously around by one arm, with him screaming. Well, now I vividly remember J. prophesying disaster from Janet and David as parents, goodness knows what the truth is. However, the effect of Jeremy’s nastiness, was to send Janet in floods of tears, before the main course, to the spare room. They never had the main course. John stopped Simon from clonking Jeremy. David went up and got Janet to go home, with John’s mother. To Beaconsfield. It seems she was difficult to get out of the car when they got home…

But it isn’t only funny by any means. Perhaps J. will now see that these ghastly family gatherings are entirely false. The psychotherapist told J that there was always a possibility of suicide with Janet. J. said he’d like a little consultation for himself. The man said he wanted him to ‘Make a list of all the things in yr life that have been profitable.’ – not materially of course. ‘And the second one was meeting you and D.’

Well, I expect we seemed like a nice younger father and mother with no demands to make. On our way out, we paused by S’s table, he wheeled round, his face blotched with rage, and flung out his arms like a drowning man, saying, ‘Here are my friends again.’

Dear John, he shed a bit of a tear in his business-suit. And left me to tangle with an important committee.

Thursday September 28 1995

By the way, John’s integrity is absolute. I don’t mean I asked him about Simon’s possible production. It’s just that J. looked me straight in the eye at the thought.

Roy has just left at about eleven, the food was just as delicious, with one reservation. The dollop of mayonnaise on the scallops was so sharp, so garlicky and so sour, that my mouth was a bit raw next day. I must be specially susceptible. Still, the scallops were so plump that I thought at first they were roast potatoes, - so sweet and nutty and delicious.

Then grilled sea bass, with grilled courgettes and toms, which were completely cold, I think by design, but I couldn’t see why as they had no dressing or sauce on them of any kind. Then pancetta topped by some simply perfect raspberries. Soave, some dessert wine, I Capitelli?

Marian couldn’t come because of no babysitter, wrote her a funny - I hope - letter. Otherwise talk just loving and funny and easy and friendly.

Forgot to say, what a scream, S’s security rang to say ‘Am I speaking to Angus Mackay?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘He said you could spell Merlin Holland, because I have to send a letter to Oscar Wilde’s grandson.’ It seems that S had spelt it Merlyn, well, I suppose Wilde has always attracted a lot of ‘y’s’. I left a message on the machine saying ‘Asking me what teal is and now this – I have almost a complete moral ascendancy.

Friday September 29 1995

Did all the shopping yesterday and can hole up till Monday. The Dutton Cook is rather fascinating. Thinking of the theatre bills that used to be the sole occupants of the frames up and down the underground escalators, I was interested by his tale of the time when the press needed the theatre advertisements, ‘Then the press was weak and the theatre was strong.’ Oh, autre temps…. Sat all day.

Saturday September 30 1995

Again Dutton Cook. On lighting this time. Gas-light, on and off, meant that you expected a headache after a visit to the theatre. It was the cause of weak sight. Ellen Terry? Make-up was often fairly poisonous. There was red oxide of lead in the lipstick, and carbonate of lead in the white paint, both capable of acting detrimentally on the optic nerve. More Ellen Terry.

He also quotes the Italian critic, Ricciboni, in a book published in 1741, saying of a visit to England in 1927, that after 45 years of experience, ‘The best actors in Italy and France come far short of those in England.’

Mrs. Hughes, the possible first actress, was bought, for £20,000 (in 166?!) Sir Nicholas Crispe’s seat near Hammersmith, by her lover, Prince Rupert of the Rhine. It afterward became the residence of the Margrave of Brandenburg and later the retreat of Queen Caroline, wife of George IV. Well, the road between here and the station is called Margravine gardens, and there’s a Caroline Walk down past Queens Club Gardens. So I needn’t worry about being 0181 after all.

At one point a pompous old actor is quoted as saying, angrily to the prompter, ‘Here’s a nice mess you’ve got me into.’ Who knows, perhaps he said ‘Another’ as well.

When a twice-nightly regime was in force, the phrase ‘John orderly’ was a cue to pick up the pace so the second show could go up on time. It seems it was a corruption of John Audley, whoever he may be. Probably a very slow actor. Interesting to compare the name for a first night party in Salberg companies being ‘A grand Duchess Charles.’ It was so-called because the girl playing that Martita Hunt part in The Sleeping Prince, had a very strong personality, the sort that can ruin a party if such be her whim. ‘I’m not enjoying this party, so nobody else will.’ What was her name? She died, last year, I think, and will spoil no more parties, poor soul.

Today’s royal messes are nothing. Coronation robes, real ones, were lent for plays, and some King’s armor was lent from the Tower of London!

I’ve never been to Dulwich Gallery shows. I really don’t need pictures.

Sunday October 1 1995

Really frightful tale – vision programme today. For some hours was motor-racing, horse racing, football and football. Later on all four programmes were American, mostly violent.

Hazel rang as usual. Fucking Tom asking about the adaptation through her again. And I don’t even want to do it. He also said to her how good it was to be alone for a fortnight, and that he’d be happier unmarried. She gave her up her job and waits on him hand and foot. ‘Still’, said Hazel, ‘He’s the secy. of the Gun Club, so he has that little hidey-hole to go to.’

The telephone gave one little half-ring at five to eleven. Can modern technology be tentative?

Monday October 2 1995

Dream about taking Edna to hotel in cottage country, East Sussex. Something-field, Heathfield, Mayfield etc. She was driving the car! Not too far from the hotel, she suddenly slumped over the wheel, but recovered, and when I’d got out to look after her, she suddenly became much younger and drove off. Caught up with her, - how? And no-one was helpful in the taxi-firm/pub where Edna was preening in front of the mirror, and disclaiming all knowledge of difficulty, and it was closing…

Now I don’t think that has any significance at all, and is a sad libel on poor Edna who couldn’t drive and would be the first to be badly disconcerted by such a scenario. Possibly it’s an expression of my feelings of responsibility taking Edna on for visits after D. died.

I woke at six, went back to sleep, and woke again at quarter to eight – that’s when I dreamt.

All over the papers, much too all over for its importance, was the break-up of Ken B and Emma Thompson. I was much amused to see that some of the reports attributed the split to class differences. Well. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Branagh were nice simple people, Eric Thompson was nice but not so simple, though that was nothing to do with class. – he was an artist, Phyllida is a brash in her youth completely over the top Scots work.-class? girl. Her acting was hardly containable when young. Emma has inherited her gums.

I think they’re both pretty blunt-ended. I never felt Ken felt anything deeply except his success. That’s the way he was like Larry. After all, Larry married an Edwardian actor-manager’s daughter because he was too stupid to see that it was too late for that to be useful. Then he married the biggest star in the world, then, when she was aging and passé, he married someone in the heart of the new movement.

Susan Fleetwood has died at 51. I may have glimpsed on TV, but never on stage. Her reputation has been almost entirely made in the unreal worlds of the RSC and The National. But I did meet her briefly, in the restaurant, La Barca, with Roy? S? – I was on my way out, I was introduced to her, and said something anodyne about whatever it was she was rehearsing. She struck like a viper at my presumption in commenting on her professional life. I suppose she didn’t know I was an actor, and needed to be put down. Mary L tells me it was cancer.

Hazel rang again this p.m. to apologise for choking me off yesterday. I didn’t think so…

The main news is that Henry Harvey has died. In his 80s, keeled over while gardening. Lucky as usual in an easy death after an easy life. Hazel said she knows that he married his wife because she was pregnant. He was really in love with Sue, whom he married as his second wife. So there are two Norwegian daughters and grandchildren up there. The two boys by Sue are 39 and 42; Justin, she described as having Henry’s good looks multiplied by four, ‘Simply the best looking most attractive young man I’ve ever seen. He (Henry) has had an active last year; in the summer he was in Greece, with some attractive young girls who were working on Barbara’s novels. Really it is true that life imitates art. How amused she surely would be!

We talked of Ken B. She’s looking forward to the TV Shadow of a Gunman, because she thinks it at least, is suited to his gifts, such as they are. ‘And, of course, it’s Geoffrey’s favorite play.’ Just as ‘Sense and Sensib.’ is her favorite Austen novel. Fancy.

This September has been the wettest since ’76. Interesting following two of the hottest summers. No coincidence.

Tuesday October 3 1995

I slept and ate and drank, and read and dozed, and bathed and drank and ate, and read and slept.

Wednesday October 4 1995

That trial in America has finished with a verdict of not guilty. But it is not because of this that I regard it as a sadly unenviable spectacle, and a sufficient evidence in itself to justify all my disapproval and dislike of America and Americans. What a civilisation, or lack if it. It seems he is already making hugely profitable deals, films, interviews, books, T-shirts…

He probably is guilty. After all, apart from anything else, it is more often the husband than anyone else, or an outsider.

Sharron rang in answer to my letter. Oh dear, I nearly laughed. She told Simon it’s over, though it took some time as he kept cancelling meetings. He took it very well, tho’ he sounded sad. Now it seems Alex feels rather trapped! ‘I don’t understand men.’ She’s obviously rather sick of the whole thing, is behind with her work, and life generally seems too much for her. But oh dear the meaningless phrases people use these days. They are dangerous, because once she says, for instance, ‘I can’t handle it’, she seems to think no more is necessary. ‘I don’t know how to deal with it’ might confront her better with her own inadequacy and the need to do something about it. She also said about Alex, ‘He’s always talking about going away to another country’, which is a little giveaway.

When I put the ‘phone down, I did laugh.

The cast-list of a dreadful American ‘sit-com’ had a name I thought I recognised, Bernard Hopkins. Wasn’t he David Williams’ boy-friend? Small and puck-like? Got a glimpse, a gruesome glimpse. He is now fat and queen-like, and an awful perf.

Rang Mary about seven, - she’d been out and about – and said that the American trial was a perfect indictment of American life. As she is now living with a TV set, I thought she might know about it. To my surprise and disgust, she’d watched the verdict, the very sort of moment I find quite unacceptable, This Is Your Life taken to its repellent limit. But then Mary, in her narrowness, has that vulgar streak. I expect she’s frightened of TV, in case she becomes an addict.

Tuesday October 5 1995

Whenever I see anorexia patients interviewed, they seem either simple or stupid. Are there any intelligent or complicated anorexics? Or any with un-manipulative parents?

When I came back from shopping this p.m. there were four or five ticket inspectors and half a dozen police at the station. When I bought my Standard as usual from the dear man who sells in the p.m. and always, if he has time, removes the wretched central pink financial pages from its centre for me, told me there’d been a fight again. The students from the collage at the corner. It’s so strange to me that people fight for the sake of fighting. And on a Wednesday. He’d had to take his newspapers and stand into the office. Ugh! And all this for no point but stupid young men, mostly black, being aggressive. It’s depressing that saying ‘mostly black’ which is simply factual, would now be interpreted as racist. Muddled thinking is more widespread than ever.

Talking of which, there is an excellent article by Martha Gellhorn saying everything I have always wanted said about Ken Loach, mut, mat, about his new Spanish Civil War film. I have never been taken in by him, since I wanted to know where the boy in a poverty-stricken household in ‘Kes’ got the money to buy the expensive equipment for his hawk, never accounted for. As she was a correspondent in the C.W. and an intelligent woman to boot, I hope her big article will have some weight.

Disappearances always interest me. On the little missing programme, a rather pathetic appeal for Alan Baker, who went, aged 23, to France with a friend of the same age, I think to do a fruit- picking holiday job. He’d finished at his university, and had a career to go back to. He doesn’t seem to have had debts, and no business worries because he didn’t have a business. If he’d had a broken heart, surely he’d have gone alone. If he’d gone alone and vanished, then you might presume murder. But two strong young men… well, they might have just been shot. It’s twenty- seven years ago, and he was with his gay lover and didn’t want to admit it? Unlikely, with a job to go back to. The elder brother could give no clue, the poor parents, now in their seventies, must either admit that he’s dead or admit the painful thought that he hasn’t wanted to see them for twenty-seven years. All the same if K vanished forever.

How funny that all these modern inventions mean that means of communication get more and more elaborate and perfect. When so much of the matter to be communicated becomes less and less interesting.

Odd to think that Southerue was hissed in 1726, two hundred years before Noel in ‘Sirocco.’ I wish people had the expertise or cared enough to hiss now.

Communication indeed. There is only the same amount of talent in the world. And very little genius comes my way, except from the past. Jane Austin, for instance, chooses a small area in which she knows she can be entirely truthful and that truth imposes itself on me as art, because the form she chooses, fits her amount of material perfectly.

Friday October 6 1995

Sweet corn yesterday still fresh in its leaves, 35p deliciously tender for lunch, and runner beans still unwoody, both in the supermarket and not in the market. Why?

Now the introduction of metrification of weights and measures cuts us off even more from our past, rendering even more of our literature that much more distant from the young.

Grant-maintained schools are frowned upon because they select by ability. What else would they select by? No wonder we’ve fallen behind.

Saturday October 7 1995

On the illiteracy and ignorance of America, of which we receive such large dollops, in a new video game, it seems the ‘baddies’ are fighting over a new element, which is absurdly called Tiberium. For more prolonged participation in sex-orgies on Capri, I suppose.

Oprah Winfrey had a programme during which the word ‘pedophile’ was often on the screen. At first I thought it was a prog. about foot-fetishists. But no, it was about child abusers.

Poor Ken B, it’s been a nasty year for him. ‘Shadow of a Gunman’ was v. dull, except for Stephen Rea. They carry on so about stage plays being static, enclosed etc etc. It never seems to occur to them that TV plays lack quite a good-deal more in comparison with the stage. Edna Everage got in on the act for poor Ken, by saying she might pursue him, ‘I’ve got lips for the two of us – I have.’ My impression always was that Ken needs to be liked.

Read Eminent Victorians, and was pleased by ‘Cambridge, whose cloisters have ever been consecrated to poetry and common sense.’ Certainly what I wanted and what I think I found.

Sunday October 8 1995

Beautifully warm 73º, all doors open, and started clearing up the garden. Comic to praise 73º after, the summer’s complaints.

A conservative M.P. has gone over to the Labour Party, and quite a prominent one, was member of the Cabinet, vice-chairmen etc. I saw an interview, and was convinced by his sincerity. He actually has a social conscience. M.P. for Stratford-on-Avon, with a majority of 23,000. Can this be the first of the rats? Apparently this particular switch has never happened before. Majority down to five!

R rang. Yet another failure of his car, the gear-box went. As he depends on it for fifty miles a day, let alone 3 buses to get to work, ‘I got a bank loan and brought a Volvo, the cheapest car I could find.’ The job isn’t at all what he wants to do, and he’s missing the theatre. Fancy. But he’ll keep the house. Coming to stay the night on the 21st. I’m afraid I think less of him.

Monday October 9 1995

Again a summer’s day, with all the trees still looking fresh. Did some more gardening, but can only manage twenty minutes weeding now, and have to be so careful to have something by to hold onto, or I’d never be able to get up.

More aging. I washed up before dinner for the first time for ages. Every knife and fork were dirty, and nearly every plate, not that I remotely care. But I thought, yes, I can either do this big washing-up or have someone to dinner!

Earlier I’d put Sharron off, telling her quite truthfully that I couldn’t afford it, but I might have done so even if I could. I didn’t want to hear her troubles at such length again so soon, and most especially I didn’t want to hear her criticising K yet again. She said she’d been going to see him tonight. I suppose in response to my ‘phone call, but he’d put her off, ‘As we had a goodish chat.’ Alex keeps saying wonderful things to her, but finds it difficult to commit himself. Well!

How crude political life is now! There are two huge TV screens behind the platform at the conservative conference on which Tony Blair’s smile is wiped off his face by ‘computer technology.’ Ugh. I wonder what lord home would have thought who died yesterday. Not that I thought much of him. If he was the last of the aristocrat P.M.s, his manner and life may have contributed their disappearance. I was amused and interested in an obituary written by Lord Lambton, wasn’t it Lord H’s mother a Lambton, who have always been eccentric? Anyway, Lord L describes Lord H as ‘Not understanding money.’ And ‘More or less hypnotised by the family lawyer who convinced him that he had little money. This caused his mother some distress in her last years.’ It seems he also ‘lived in a basement flat in London I wouldn’t have kept a dog in.’ All this not in the usual playful tone of lovable faults. He was obviously really mean – he didn’t look like a Slade for nothing.

There’s now supposed to be a clear link between asthma and poverty. Strange, as I have always thought of it as a middle-class complaint. Not to mention a v. strong psychological element. Pollution? Yes, though asthma is higher on Skye than in Edinburgh or Glasgow. All that must be put against the fact that so many more people are interested in being ill these days.

I can’t say I like Gore Vidal or his books much, but he is that v. rare thing, a cultivated American with a light touch. In speech, at any rate, I’ve never been able to read any of his novels, tho’ his essays are better value. As an example of his un-American wit, accounting for his lack of success as a politician, ‘I suggested that American people should be educated, an idea whose time has not yet come.’ Goodness how the Middle West must hate that, not least because they wouldn’t quite get it. And did dear Ingrid die as long ago as 1982?

Rang K to see if he’d borrowed one of my navy-blue pull-overs, as I can’t find one, and I thought well, where else can it be. ‘I’ve just turned the drawers out, and I don’t think….’ ‘You’ve just turned your drawers out?’ I shrieked. ‘Yes,’ ‘Well when I come round next I’ll look on the floor.’

Tuesday October 10 1995

Two bills I can’t see how I’ll pay. Dreary. No gardening. How wonderful darling Sharron isn’t here.

The Ruth Prawer J. novel is diffuse, oddly concentrated. The protagonist is shortish brought up entirely by women, possibly a God, crippled …I suppose S identified with him, which would make the novel more interesting.

Extraordinary days I have now, seeing no one, going nowhere, doing nothing outside the house. Odd. It’s a pity that painting doesn’t thrill me more because it’s free.

Wednesday October 11 1995

Really, the conservative conf. Michael Portillo made a speech which included the words ‘glory’ and ‘valour’. Ugh.

I’m fascinated by Mary L. living with a TV set. She watched Howard’s End all through. I couldn’t face a frame of it. And yet she says she can’t read 19th century novels – yes, I know H.E. is 1911, but …

This Is Your Life was about the poor little queen of an author and ‘deviser’ of Coronation Street was deified. What chance has my sort of actor against that parade for Northern brassiness and vulgarity.

K rang at 9.45. C4 was coming round at 11.0. Some America basket ball prog. music had to be altered ‘because Houston had been pronounced Huston instead of Hooston, or vice versa? And by an American.

‘How are you?’ ‘Oh I’m all right, but I’ve had cold and a couple of bills I can’t pay.’ ‘What?’ I told him and last week the Alliance and the tax took a lot of the pension. ‘How much are the bills?’ ‘The water-rate, £82, no that’s my TV license and my water-rate, £77.’ ‘I’ll put a cheque for £200 in the post.’ ‘Can you spare it?’ ‘Yes.’

‘And what about the tax? Find out how much it is now, and the interest. It might be worth our while to pay it off’

Our while?

So I asked after Arlette. She has got into the university, but has to live with her mother. ‘She rang and reversed the charges. That was good.’ ‘Keveen, I miss you.’ Heavens, how bad he is at imitations! ‘I’m letting the studio to Stan for a fortnight, and I might go to Portugal then for the first week in November. But before that I’ve got a load of shit to deal with, including you.’

Thursday October 12 1995

Still so warm. I felt I had a little leeway, so went to Selfridges to pay the a/c which was a fortnight overdue. Then I thought I would get some ink, and my new diary. Went upstairs, paid in £20, five pounds more than strictly necessary. Went down to buy the ink. My card had been stopped and there was such a long embarrassing interval, of to and frowing to get me straight again - at least ten minutes of standing there like a criminal – that I gave up, and came away without the ink or diary. Computers are not only slower – they have removed almost everyone’s initiative. I was soaked in sweat, with my usual Mrs. Tiggywinkle’s hands in this hot humid weather, and abandoned my idea of going to a film. Decided to go home by bus, as it was cooler. Upstairs was immediately surrounded by piercingly chattering Japanese girls, the one on my seat, ceaselessly punching my left arm and rattling my Evening Standard, making it impossible for me to read, by searching through and re-arranging a lot of expensive shopping. I only went upstairs because I could sit there until the bus stopped forever at H’smith, so that there could be no question of climbing down when it was moving, which I can’t do now. We were turned out – all change – at Kensington Gdns. I walked to Gloucester Rd. tube, and limped home. Thinking one way and another, that it might have been Friday the 13th, if anything else happened.

Watched Roy’s ‘Back-up’ the episode he wrote, that he had almost had his name taken off. I quite saw why. As well as the coarse direction, the coarse director had imported some coarse actress. The fat business-man caught out on the loo, was as amateurish and inept a perf. as I’ve seen in quite a time, and ruined a climatic scene. The fact that the one self-conscious and coarse actor among the regulars was more at home in this episode, shows the coarseness of the director, name? Douglas Mackinnon. ‘Doug.’ Always a bad sign

There has been a poetry competition. I believe it was national but there seem to have been only 7,500 entries, which seems low even for poetry. The first three were announced tonight. (The competition was for favorite poems, not new ones.) Third was W. de la Mare’s The Listeners, (well…) second, The Lady of Shallot (all right), but first was – ‘If’. I suppose it’s all these poker-work plaques… Oh, rang Roy after the episode, and he was more reconciled. Says the rating was 8 million. Not at all bad, going up each epi.

Could not write of K’s kindness. He said as usual, now don’t go emotional on me.’ It isn’t the money, it’s the thinking about my troubles, and £200 instead of just the two sums added together. ‘How did your day in B’mouth go,’ ‘OK’ ‘Where was the house?’ ‘Hornchurch.’ ‘Christchurch?’ ‘Yes.’

Friday October 13 1995

Not an unlucky day at all. K’s cheque arrived with one of those little labels stuck on it, the sort that peel off and leave no trace, ‘With love K. X’.

Went out in the p.m. to pay it in and at last – got to a new film again. Went to the Halifax in Lower Regents and had a little time to spare, so wandered about. It shows how long it is since I was properly in The West End, that the new pub between the Gielgud and the Queens, was new to me. Burlington Bertie’s, another pathetic imitation for tourists. Not surprising, perhaps, as I walked from Piccadilly C. to Leicester Square, through fairly thick crowds, I don’t think I saw another English man or woman. Everything is American, except the theatres. Poor Americans is that what they want, not to get a sniff of Englishness? Yes, Probably.

The new film was Nightguard. Danish, well done all round. A young law-student night porting in a mortuary. Two of the characters made rather nastier than was really believable to make them more plausible suspects for the serial murders. A horror film.

Went on to H’smith for restricted shopping with the fifteen pounds I had left, so, on the way back home, I was pleased to find a large ripe pear left on its own on the seat in the empty carriage. I ate it after dinner, and it was delicious. I shall be picking up old newspapers and searching litter bins next. I see that little creep, Nick Leeson, who brought down Baring’s has been offered a $450,000 advance for his memoires even before he’s tried, and may make a million out of the book. I wonder how many of the tabloids have ‘And they say Crime doesn’t Pay’ as a headline.

The video shop rang up to ask if I wanted to order a mobile ‘phone, I’d quite forgotten they’d sent me a lot of bumf last week.

Saturday October 14 1995

I found a bloody scrape on my little finger knuckle on my right hand. I had not noticed doing it at all, which shows that, even on the hands there are areas without any nerves at all.

A critic whose writing I admire, Thomas Sutcliffe, devotes his TV article to a savage indictment of ‘Jane Austen’ for writing a fictional version of Andrew Davies’ TV series. A perfect rebuke for his (AD’s) vulgarity. I must write to him.

This p.m. Justin rang. Is now seriously looking for somewhere else, and wants to come and stay, in case. It’ll be pleasant for a week or so… Jolly talk as usual. I think he might make a film- critic if he can write. His present landlords are not letting any more, and are being a bit difficult.

‘Blind Date’ was a bit funny at first, but is now watchable and has been ever since, more or less, the first series. I turned it on for a second, and got a girl saying ‘When I was a girl I used to dress up as a nurse. What did you dress up as?’ Oh, how one longs for the man to say ‘A nurse.’ Instead of the smutty birthday-card verse put into his mouth.

Real blinkered stupidity can be infuriating. Two Newcastle men came down to appear on a ‘protest programme’. Why had a programme about the North-East been subtitled? The producer and director both said mildly that, during the editing, nobody had been able to understand the very broad Geordie speech, and that therefore the ordinary audience would be even more at sea. They would. I am an actor, used to ‘Geordie’ – my mother was from Newcastle – and I couldn’t follow much of it. The two closed faces clearly persisted in the belief that it was a posh plot. ‘We felt clarity was the first consideration.’ Well, clarity is a posh word. Also an exact one.

Sunday October 15 1995

The papers were late again today. Yesterday it seems the paper boys were late – ‘But they are on the way, and if they’re not on time tomorrow, they’re out.’ And the papers did arrive eventually at about ten-thirty. Today I rang again at ten-thirty. ‘You haven’t had your papers? What’s he thinking of? You rang yesterday, didn’t you?’ He apologised with conviction, and a plump girl arrived with them about eleven. Now the apologies and the eventual delivery were a great improvement on the failures of a few years ago – though I have to say really efficient paper-boys probably become hideous tycoons, and careless ones, who can’t get up, become K.

Hazel rang as usual. Really I think I will have to ease her gently out of my life. I was just about to say, ‘What about ‘If’ getting the most’ – when she cried Isn’t it wonderful about ‘If’ etc. etc. Then she read me a letter she’d written to the Telegraph to protest against criticism of Michael Heseltine’s new office being ‘So luxurious.’ She pointed out that she had ‘reliable information’ – from Henery James, in fact – that the room in question had been empty for some time because nobody wanted it. And there was no carpet on the floor, though carpets loom very large in civil service hierarchy, and look at the skirting board, and the leaking radiator… Later she said of that possible American first black president – ‘Isn’t he wonderful? I’d like him to come here and set up an Army state, or even more, whoever that American horror was in the Gulf War.’ Oh dear, I suddenly saw Tom’s gun room.

Monday October 16 1995

Dream a.m. after dozing off. Usual toing and froing tho’ in different places from the usual. Long trip on bus alone, with a horrible dog, barking and snarling, - I just got the door shut against him, finally wanting to shit, finding no decent one and the last one rather in the middle of a shop, soon, I think, to be used as a dressing room, fairly choked and piled up with shitty paper. Decided to pull plug halfway through wiping, and the bottom of the pedestal shattered and everything rushed across the floor towards the shop-door, most of it other people’s….

Pulled up pants over dirty arse, and set off…home, I suppose. Odd, because I have no reaction at all to loos and shit, except the practical one.

Lunch today, omlettes, fines herbes with chervil, parsley and mint from the garden. Pleasant. There was a lemon pip in it. Where from?

Went out shopping and saw sign in news agents, ‘Paperboys wanted.’

Martha Gellhorn was interviewed on Face To Face. I taped it and haven’t watched it all yet, so I don’t know whether she mentioned her Ken Loach, but she’s satisfyingly clear, and literate. Her father was a doctor in St. Louis, highly educated and believed in excellence. She is over eighty but formidably together. She has a complete command of our sort of language and comes from the same generation and class as Katharine Hepburn, says ‘hālf’. The sort of American who is humble and intelligent enough to know that the best of their language, let alone anything else. I hope she pursues and finally demolishes that little worm Loach.

Sharron rang and we’re meeting at her pub for lunch. I need a shorter time with her until we can make a real friendship, quite apart from her love problems.

Tuesday October 17 1995

A ‘I haven’t been able to deliver your parcel’ card having been put through the letter-box, I went to collect it and found it was a parcel from S. with the second Vol. of John Betjemann’s letters. What a lucky thing that I virtuously resisted buying it the other day after K’s cheque! Plunged into it on the tube – the sorting office is at Ravenscourt Park – I didn’t know he played golf but only on his own. The woman who ran the shop, sold him some second hand golf-balls, two of which had two black spots on, ‘Oh, I couldn’t hit these, Mrs. Rose, they remind me of my wife too much.’ Oh, he was such a wonderful ass. I now found that he and Eliz. Car. had only been together about a year when I met them at Gerard’s in 1953. I can’t remember a thing either of them said, except that they were kind.

My only complaint is that there are no spare end-papers, and worse, the two that there are, are dark plum red, fairly useless for the notes I like to make.

What a success Roy Jenkins has had with his new biog. of Gladstone. I might even read it, since there is rather more in Glad’s life that is interesting than most politicians. At least he was complicated.

The last traces of summer, dinner, fried plaice and runner-beans with the door open.

Wednesday October 16 1995

The IT rang up to say the debt was £3443, of which £1400 odd was the interest. Sickening. I’ve been paying £5 a week for three or four years. As I have had no alternative, I am moved very much by K. saying he might pay it off. I wrote to say, and asking him to pay the water-rate directly after all, because they threaten ‘Legal action without warning’ on the red demand, and I’d give him back the £77 when his cheque is cleared on Wednesday. A good thing I wrote – better not to interrupt – because, after I’d taken the receiver off during ‘My-so-called life’ on C4, the wretched ‘phone when out of order again, again. It seems unbelievable. That it could be taking the receiver off, since that must happen a thousand times a day with children, hurry, old people etc.

Thursday October 19 1995

Wrenched myself out of bed to go out to lunch with Paul. We were both a bit out to lunch as it happened. However, as I was waiting, Ben suddenly appeared out of the pavement, to my great pleasure. He has a keen wry humorous mind, and the humour is never switched off, like mine and unlike most people. Despite the difference in our ages, we nearly like and see the same films. I haven’t seen him for an age. But we chatted with great animation and pleasure until Paul turned up. He’d had a morning perf. of Tom Kitten. Ugh! So off we went to Café Pasta, and P and I had a wonderfully anti-hangover Salad Nicoise, and Ben had a quick Caesar salad. He looks so nice now, compared to the stud-leather peroxided winkle-picker of old. Paul tells me Nada is still out of work, and is going to visit her bro. in Australia for a month. That girl has too much money, imagine D at the same age moving an inch from the telephone for a minute. Ah well, he seemed to want to take me to the cinema – he paid for lunch, the dear – I wonder how many 70 year olds get so many meals from 30 year old friends – so we went on Ben’s recommendation, to Dolores Claiborne, a rather melodramatic affair, a bit on the cold comfort farm side, but pretty well acted all round. C. Plummer a bit over the top – old fashioned in fact, signaling everything in advance. He went back to have a nap before going to a birthday party tonight. Did I record the plays he’s doing at the Unicorn till March? (Tom), Pied Piper (a rat, I expect) and The Jungle Book?

Oh, Ben, had hurt his eye in a basket-ball match. (Ben playing basket-ball?) What would he had said if I’d said etc.? but perhaps basket-ball and not telling his stud-leather winkle-picker friends. It hit him hard, - I don’t quite see how it did what it did – but his left eye is bloodshot from his nose to the pupil and I mean bloodshot, - pure blood fills the entire space. Apart from the rather fascinating loucheness – I said he should go out on the – what was that phrase K used when he finished with Sharron? One of those odious phrases young men use for their sexual shrimping net. But Ben is a real individual. He’s possibly got a video to direct, £35,000 budget, nothing but the best he’s had yet.

Back here, the telephone is still out of order.

Friday October 20 1995

A bit chiller. Again wrenched myself out of bed to go to lunch with darling Sharron. I can see a time not too far ahead, a time when I won’t go out to lunch. Even now I find, as I decline into old age, I am starting to underestimate the time it takes me to walk anywhere. I was quite badly delayed by arriving at King X to find there were no signs pointing to the northern line. I wandered about for a bit, feeling really disorientated, as if I were in a film where everyone is lying for some mysterious reason. I actually wondered at one point whether I had made a mistake and had never changed there for Angel. Really, if I felt like that, how must a visitor feel? Although there is an announcement everywhere about changes at Victoria – Don’t change… - there has been nothing about this. I had to walk quite a long way at K and at Euston. In the end, I was twenty mins late, and it’s ten mins to the pub. Sh. was at the door, so sweet and welcoming. In a black velvet doublet, really, with the skirts finishing at the middle of the hip, big bottoms, and mini-skirt, black matt stockings, and a rather 17th century shoes with big Cuban heels.

When I think when I first knew her, she used to hide her legs. I think her time with K gave her sexual confidence. She bought me one of their delicious sandwiches, bacon, mine was, with beautiful fresh thick white bread, and a glass of white. She offered me another glass of wine, but I refused because K said she was hard up. Still, I was happy to hear from her, that she’s drawn a new catalogue and one firm had doubled their orders. But I’m still handicapped by not at all understanding her business. Still she doesn’t seem to be worried about money – she’d been to an important interview this morning.

So we talked over the situation. She’d had an evening with K at last. They went to the new Terrace Conrad Place in Wardour St. – Mezzo, is it? for 800 diners. Now I know there are 200 chefs, but I can’t believe that the cooking can be at all special. K’s instinct prevailed and they left after a drink – to see and be seen is the point of it really – to go to Alistair Little. Again his instinct was sound, - that lesbian partner has come back and it’s got better.

Sh. has stopped sleeping with Alex, and ‘It’s rather strange.’ Well, yes. And she’s reaching back to Simon in her curious push and pull way. She seems to prefer lack of definition. She emphasised again her loneness. How she suddenly felt so lonely, and was obviously thinking of sleeping with Alex, who was, after all, there. The only good thing I said was that it wasn’t a good thing to sleep with someone just because you were lonely. I wonder if I’m any help to her really except as K’s background. She didn’t talk him down this time, except to retail a moment when he said it was silly of him to have said something – I never really got it clear what! Back at the studio I rang the telephone people again, and got a man who went away leaving me with some insipid music playing, and then came back and said with exactly the wrong inflexion, ‘You’ve got something wrong with your telephone.’ And when I got home at 3.30ish it was right. I rang round everyone, - Roy hadn’t been biting his nails to the quick worrying why I hadn’t rung after Back-Up – Mary L and K had reported the fault. K was so sweet saying he thought Sunday might be possible ‘R is coming up.’ Is he? No, I can’t manage Saturday.’

Programme about Joyce G, on the same line as the Tommy Cooper. As usual, all I could feel except for odd moments, was that it was all based on Ruth Draper, and not a quarter as good in either basic talent or execution. For one thing, R.D. was not a physical figure of fun, so had an infinitely wider range. The nearest J.G. came to Ruth’s standard was her song ‘Three Brothers,’ which of course they didn’t show.

So rang R who’d rung, of course, I’d had a fantasy, as usual, of R and Justin crying off. R did. A bit tired, next week. I said had he cancelled his other appts? No, he was only coming to see me. Well.

Saturday October 20 1995

Had a delicious sleep-in as a result of freedom, and a bit of a hangover from even more freedom. And the whisky not having to last over the weekend. Woke at 12.30 to hear the telephone. Justin said his landlords, far from tuning him out this Friday, have gone off to France for a week without leaving him a note. So suddenly was free and no hoovering. Have I said that I re-read Pride and Prejudice? I can only repeat that, if you can read it and understand it, you can’t want to dramatise it. Because you can’t.

Turned on the television set, and got a morsel of a Shirley Bassey programme and got – crumbling old horror, Norman Newell. I knew he was a horror at EMI, but some of S.B.’s songs sinking into worse horror, awful old creature, that he should have come near D as head of EMI, or whatever he was, shows what a pity S.D. was in D’s artistic life really.

Clocks go back tonight.

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Oh the confidences you feel.

Sunday October 22 1995 Monday October 23 1995

A lovely surprise. K rang and said It’s now or never. Could I come and cook? Well, I had the rest of the spag. bog sauce, so I took that. ‘You do know the clocks went back?’ ‘Yes… what time is it?’

I got there at seven to find him not bogged down finishing something but sorting the videos, many of which are, of course, adverts and so on. I went and played in the kitchen for a bit. ‘Very little tonic.’ ‘Under the sink.’ ‘Have you fed the cat?’ ‘No.’ When I got back, he gave me a new remote control, saying ‘I’ve got cable now. Thirty-two channels, it’s shit.’ And it more or less was, except the ‘Art’ channel. Baryshoikov in Don Quixote and Clouseall scene with Herbert Lom, He has it for professional reasons, and I think will get rid of it. He showed me his showreel. I specially liked a track over a new Selfridges comm. and lots of other stuff was interesting (It was KLM, not B. Airways.) He then told me the story of the Selfr. thing. Everyone was keen, the designer loved it, the man from the agency said This is terrific, where…etc.etc.’ then the little creep appointed after the Saatchi debacle, is asserting his brief authority and vetoed it for something ‘that goes tinkle tinkle, along with the pearls.’ I noticed his, because it didn’t go with the pearls.

Oh, this terrible business pin-striped blanket over everything! He’s going to Portugal first week in November. ‘Are you thinking of being faithful?’ ‘No way.’ He went out with one of the dancers from that fairly awful co. the other year, tonight Monday! Tried to describe which one, ‘but her hair’s quite different.’ I daresay… I don’t know how it came up, but I reminded him of taking his tracksuit off driving down the motorway to Bournemouth.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 137

October 23 1995 - December 15 1995.

Sunday October 22 1995 Monday October 23 1995 (cont).

…years ago, probably because of talking about Portugal. He remembered that vaguely, but much more clearly jumping out of the car to look at the New Forest ponies, and then said, ‘When I drove away from her down the motorway, for 3 hours, I got a hard-on and had a wank at…’ ‘It was 75mph, on the way to B’month.’ ‘No, it was 120mph. I haven’t told anyone that.’ Well, I hope not. He had some fresh green linguini in the fridge, so I did it with that. He left half the pasta. Well, he’s not losing weight, and he ate my sauce. ‘Are you alright for money?’ The IT debt was too much, but if he does well, he’ll deal with it.’ He said he’d give me money to dine Nigel.

He was a bit sleepy and tired, dear boy, but I was able to tell him everything. He goes to Portugal – oh, I said that. But Stan L. is using the studio so I won’t have to feed the cat. Unless Stan gets fed up, ‘So I’ve told him to ring you.’ ‘What about lodgers? I don’t mean money or anything…’

Whatever else there is, there is absolute trust.

So today went to get my pension, and thought I’d go to the pictures after, at Fulham. The new picture Clueless, opened on Friday, and I thought it would amuse me. Unhappily it turned out to amuse the entire school population of Kensington and Chelsea. In front of me at the box-office were four girls, fourteen? thirteen? perhaps even twelve – such children are so damn annoyingly precocious these days. They giggled, they chatted, they fiddled in each other’s purses, one of them left and came back to start it all over again just as the three seemed to be finished. I think I can say quite definitely that it’s the longest I’ve ever waited at the booking-office, with just one lot of customers ahead of me. It must have been nearly five minutes. I knew that none of the four had any idea that there was anyone behind them, Children are naturally cruel, insensitive and rude. It is no use depending on luck for them to lose these repellent qualities in later life. I think I’m quite glad I’m 70 next year. I may be getting out just in time. Look at the mess we’re in now with the dreaded ‘60’s generation running things… I suddenly saw hordes of similar teenager flooding in, - and the Ken. and Che. variety are the worst, because they’re rich as well – and I turned tail and ran away.

So Kingsley Amis is dead. I never thought as highly of Lucky Jim as others did. In fact, it depressed me – as N. Mitford remarked of it ‘As any evidence of declining civilisation depresses me.’ I never bought any of his books, and quite early on gave up on him. I tried one or two over the years and never finished them. To my stupefaction he was called ‘one of the four greatest novelists of the late 20th century’, along with William Golding, Anthony Burgess and Doris Lessing. Help, Doris Lessing !!!

Another debate about boxing after another death. How anyone can be interested, let alone take part in, boxing, is a complete mystery to all of us.

I haven’t written about dear Gary Bond’s death, have I? I can’t say I’m in the least bit surprised it was AIDS. By his own admission he was fiercely promiscuous, shall I ever forget the raging giggles that rolled over us in Schippel as he ‘told’ in any possible pause? He was a most capable actor, excellent as the lead in What E. Woman Knows, that D, he and I were in at Guildford, and later in Schippel, where we had a hilarious dinner in deax, talking of Vernon Dobtcheff. When we got back to the Midland, Gary said ‘Well, although he seems to be everywhere, at least he doesn’t know either of us are here.’ At that moment Vernon walked round the corner of the reception-desk. And he was in that play at Greenwich when D. took over a huge part from Elizabeth Berger. Then I was aware that he might not age usefully. He was 5’ 7-8”, not ideal height as you thicken into middle age. He was a young type, and would not have turned into a weighty middle-aged actor, simply G.B. with wrinkles. Indeed the last ten years he has not at all held his position, considering how well-known he has been. Lived with Jeremy Brett for years. Last 16 years with some daughter I never met. He had such charm, he was one of sexiest people I ever met. It came out of every pore. He had that quality of skin.

Tuesday October 24 1995

Re-reading Conan Doyle here and there. He’s always better at short stories, Sh. H or the Tales. The historical novels, of course, I’ve never been able to open. Has that narrative gift that can’t be taught. But what a naïf innocent suburban chump he was!

Rang Nigel eventually and got the answer-machine, so that’s done, tho’ I dread it a bit, him seeing the degringolade of the flat.

Had specially good wank today. No reason.

Wednesday October 25 1995

Still warm, over 60º. Went out to draw on K’s £200 and paid the television license – it’s now £82 and something. In Tesco’s there were two pigeons reduced from £2.99 to £1.99. A bit of the cellophane wrapping had come off one, and part of the leg and breast were ever so slightly dried up, nothing to affect the actual meat. I grabbed them as I am sure that the great big pollution maniac public would not. Casseroled them when I got back. Delicious, for tomorrow Nigel rang and seemed determined to take me out so it’s Café Pasta next Sunday. Mary L. rang, reading the S. Gary with terrific pleasure, and we penciled in Wednesday, if the weather holds. Justin rang, and comes round with clothes etc. Really my arm ached.

The editor of a prominent Moscow paper has prominent pictures of the Iser and Tsarina on his wall. Fancy.

Parceled up my old slim Kate Greenaway Mother Goose to Roy’s little girl. It’s fragile, with loose pages, and I know R will cherish it. I noticed Jack Sprat missed out ‘You see’ in the third line, so it doesn’t scan. Hm. Haven’t look at it for years, and I have the Oxford Dict. of Rhymes.

Thursday October 26 1995

Still warm. Woke very late, and hoovered! Went to the shops. Made some soda-bread.

R rang, just out of my bath to cancel again, this time because of his grandfather’s funeral. Just like our families, his poor mother had had a holiday booked the whole year, starting this Friday. The funeral is on Monday. ‘She’s coming up to me, and we’re going down together.’ ‘Yes, well, the journey from Bristol to Poole is quite tiresome. Coming up to London, and going down to Poole, is probably quicker.’ ‘Yes, except that she doesn’t live in Bristol and I don’t live in London.’ Collapsed.

Mary told me that a friend of hers clearing up the house of an aunt described as ‘meticulous’, found a box full of bits of string, labeled ‘pieces of string too short to use’.

Friday October 27 1995

I have still not mastered this oven properly for a real casseroling. If you put it on 5, it does not represent ½ on my old oven. It’s really slow, and the pigeons, after two hours one day, and ½ hr the next on 1, were not falling off the bone as they should. The point is slowness but at the right temp. I put the second one on – it’s been in the cass. all the time, - this evening at six, eat at 8, on 1. If it’s overdone, that’ll be another clue.

Justin turned up with a small holdall, gave me £60 and left almost at once. He is a dear.

The next in the comic programmes was Max Miller and again there were almost none of the best bits that he got, and others talked far too much. Of course, I enjoyed some of it, but another good chance missed. How can they keep saying someone is a genius, and keep interrupting him?

Saturday October 28 1995

Darling Sharron rang at rather the wrong moment for me to be as rational and supportive as I sometimes flatter myself I can be – just at the end of dinner, a bit drunk and poised on an up- right chair in the kitchen. But I think I did quite well to fulfill my commitment as a friend, - ‘ring me anytime, so that you will not be lonely.’ Told her the Pieces of String and I thought she’d never stop laughing.

Justin settled in, and went off quite soon to Soho for an evening with Liam and Darren. Remembered names!

Sunday October 29 1995

I don’t think Justin came back last night. Had quiet restful day preparing for Nigel’s dinner.

Monday October 30 1995

Will write tomorrow of N dinner. All I can think of tonight is his flight to Portugal and him.

Surviving that is everything.

Tuesday October 31 1995

How silly he’d think me but I can’t help it. Still drink dulls the worry a bit. So to Nigel. How long since I saw him – K’s b’day party, a year last Feb. I think. He looks a bit coarser and is sometimes too foul-mouthed to match, for me. It’s not the ‘piss’es and ‘fuck’s, it’s blunt endedness, the inexpressiveness. Nevertheless he is a dear funny ridiculous creature who attracts farcically unlikely and absurd events and people. And not always absurd – it’s like him to have been at Heysel Stadium on that awful right. Need I mention his affair with the wife of the Vice Squad…. Talking of which, it seems I met him and her, at Richmond when I went to see Shades. Don’t remember that Nigel was there, let alone them… so I said ‘Have you said goodbye to her?’ ‘Yes, on Thursday.’ ‘Do you still mind about her?’ ‘Deeply.’ ‘What does she look like?’ ‘Small, blonde with these very good check-bones and big eyes, like Julia Carling, only better- looking.’ So I said ‘You’re off to N.Z. – I believe it’s about the size of Britain, but with far fewer people.’ ‘Three million men and sixty million nervous sheep.’

He said he’d had a series of farewell parties and needed a hair of the dog. He had a couple of large gins, saying charmingly – for he has, from time to time, some of K’s charm – that he still makes gin and tonics ‘as you taught me years ago.’ I reminded him of his first visit here, at 13, when he sat and read the newspaper and never spoke; before I mentioned the paper, he held it up in front of him. He knew what he was doing then. ‘That was my first view of London, of what it was all about.’

That touched me as I looked at that seemingly sullen child ordering dinner and drinks with aplomb, no special grace like K. but quite casually and unselfconsciously. Later, in true Nigel mode, he told me of three ‘incidents’ that have always been his stock-in-trade. First the Head of the Vice Squad sent him a letter saying he must not write or speak to his wife, or… shortly after he was in a Turkish Kebab House, and he was attacked by the owner. Was it on the tip-off of the H of V.S? More likely in response to a piece of pretty good rudery by N., on his admission, ‘Perhaps I didn’t say it in the right why.’ Got a black eye. They went to the Grand, Clapham, now a disco, with K and others – naturally this last week or two has been all farewell parties – and he picked up a big fair girl, ‘Quite muscular shoulders, so I took her back to my place only two minutes away, I went in the room on the right, first one that came, the landlord shouted ‘IS that you? Are you on the pull?’ So we got down to it. I’d felt her under the table and she hadn’t any public hair, she was shaved, I liked that. So she was on top of me, getting going and I went to touch her hair, and she said something about peaches. I said there was a dish of peaches in the kitchen but not now. But it turned out to be a wig and she’d got alopecia and her wig was stuck on with double-sided sticky tape like Blue Peter.

Then he went to L’pool to say goodbye to Marjorie and Ernie, and was out and about, a real slaggy equivalent of an Essex girl asked for ‘a ciggy’, and snatched his wallet…

Marjorie is very fail. He said Mrs. Green, who’s lived next door ever since he was born, said M. never talks over the fence any more or comes down the garden at all, hasn’t for six months. Six months? Not even in the wonderful summer? There’s very little of her now, so little resistance.

As he was paying the bill, he took a snapshot out of his wallet of a young woman laughing with one leg up on a rock, like a dancer. I said ‘Oh, yes, she is like Julia Carling.’ ‘It’s Mum.’ Shocking, but he agreed that she was like his girl in type. Interesting.

On the way to tube, we had to go through a little group of wrestling youngsters in the passage between Wyndham’s and the Abbey. I wondered if it would develop into the sort of incident that seems to stalk N., but it didn’t. Looked at him in profile as we walked along, I saw a bit of a double-chin, he’s put on weight and at 27? 28? It’s not at all difficult to see his middle age, and likeness to Ernie. But he was so sweet and kind, and said it had been ‘delightful,’ not a word, I think, he uses much to his friends. He promised to send me his address, when I said ‘Well, he won’t write, will he?’ He clearly has an affection for me from the past, which I suppose is distant to him. Cream of celery soup, salad nicoise, the third white wine!

Much publicity about Paul Eddington and his horrible skin cancer. Well, I’m very sorry about that, but I must protest against the word ‘great’ being bandied about in said articles. Goodness, how D would see the decadence if she suddenly heard that word applied to a competent adequate rep. actor. So it’s now Tuesday, and yesterday in the p.m. to see ‘To Die For’, a good little satire. Nicole Kidman clever. The Phoenix boy is strangely different from River, and impossible to say whether he can actually act or not. Ushers at Tott. Court Rd still hell, prancing in and out seven or eight times during the film.

Mary L rang in the p.m. to say she couldn’t come to lunch tomorrow. She’d had a violent headache and then been violently sick all night, ‘I thought is this the stroke?’ Don’t much like the sound of that combination, of course I’m glad to be let off.

Justin went off to see a room in Notting Hill, and rang later to say he’d got it and would be gone by Friday. Good, - not that it hasn’t been nice to have him for these few days.

Wednesday November 1995

Well, November it may be, but I went to the shop without a coat. If only I had a coat.

Dear Janet rang and asked me to the film and supper after – I thought she had no money.

Re-read Alice W. and T. the L.G. I should think I am the last generation to whom they were really viable – I don’t mean all the absurd versions of them – in their deeply Victorian feeling. I was surrounded by Victorians in childhood, after all, The L. Glass mantelpiece and looking glass are very like those in the back-drawing room at Man. Road.

Also re-read the Joyce Grenfell diaries. What a strong mixture she was, of consciousness and uncon, of censoriousness and generosity, of perception and blunt-endedness. She had a few touches more of Aunt Nancy than she ever admitted to herself. Her condemnation of drinks, cigs, sex etc is ludicrously unworldly, a maiden aunt on the edge of life. Her continuing unease about Ruth Draper is at least to her credit. Well might a small talent be uneasy in the face of genius. She gives herself away whenever she mentions her. And most odd of all, that two such intelligent and sharp-witted creatures as herself and Virginia Graham!, can be taken in by the ridiculous woolly guff of Christian science, quite mystifies me. Did not their ear tell them what a rubbish it is? Joyce so often made excellent fun of quite indistinguishable rubbish, who was it who told me only the other day, that someone close to Reggie told him or her that she refused treatment at the end for eye cancer? Which is, it seems, one of the more treatable cancers. I can see that as the eye is so separate and as it were, on the surface of the body. Not that that quite fits in with her having her eye out, still…

I’m with Noel, who once remarked ‘Mary Baker Eddy has probably been responsible for more deaths than Hitler.’

Justin reported on the room, it’s in Arundale Gardens, a gay publisher of 28. He has the semi- basement more or less to himself, only a shower, tho’, and he loves his bath. Although it sounds all right on the surface, chap out 9-5, and away a good deal, I don’t think Justin will last long there.

Thursday November 2 1995

Derrick Marr on Tuesday, Justin took the message and said how bad-tempered he sounded. Well, yes. Didn’t ring back till today, and wished I had. The poor sod had a taxi waiting to take him to the Middlesex for a scan! ‘What for?’ ‘To deal with the lack of balance.’ So I, suppose it’s a brain scan. So I suppose it’s a possible brain tumor, poor sod. He’s already had a fairly serious operation up the bum. Did I go and visit him there, somewhere between Islington and Clerkenwell? Yes, I did, and the hospital had a huge sign to cheer up patients who didn’t know what they were in for. The Royal Clarence Hospital for Fearful Operations up the Bum and Beyond, or words to that effect. If as some people think, negativity and sourness of spirit can make you ill, D.M. is good evidence for them as, in a different way, is Mary. Rang her too, to inquire after her headache and sickness. It came on again worse than ever, she took ‘Some of the pills I’d saved from shingles and they worked like a charm.’ Shall ring both on Sunday. Both resist, like Daddy, any suggestion of optimism.

I cooked some fresh linguini with tomato, pepper and basil sauce I’d brought at Safeway’s. Alas when I spooned it out, up came that harsh acrid smell of too much seasoning and garlic. I just knew it would make my mouth, not exactly sore but too hot, anesthetised to anything but the seasoning. It is no use pretending I like anything like obtrusive garlic. Or raw onion. I think those of us who feel like this are unfairly judged as lacking taste. On the contrary I think we have too much. For example, raw onion in a salad means that I taste and smell nothing else.

Strong seasoning of any kind burns my mouth so that I cannot taste whatever the other ingredients may be. The obverse, I think, is that some foods seem to have more taste with me – plaice for instance, that some are dismissive of, has to me a definite and delicious taste. I need not bother to add, or perhaps I do, that strongly spiced things produce hours of indigestion.

In the p.m. to the film for the first time for ages. There was another in the smaller cinema, who didn’t eat much of their little buffet, and the nice waiter, whom Janet knew, brought the trays into our cinema, when his audience had gone in, and walked up and down the rows with a couple of trays, one with half a dozen sorts of sandwiches, prawn, egg, ham, chicken, cheese and tomato, and the other with little triangles of smoked salmon on br. bread.

I’m afraid that supper after was the best part of the evening. The film was Farinelli and very silly and boring it was. For a start unrelieved mid 18th Century not always very distinguished operatic arias all of the same type, soon palls, with no contrast. There are many minor absurdities such as F’s voice being unbroken for singing, but not for speaking (and of course the castration having effect on his appearance). But one example may do. Poor old Handel, jealous of F’s success, comes on the stage before the last act, and, holding F to the floor with a stick with a horse’s-head handle like Stanley Holloway, says that in stealing his score to sing his music, he’d ruined his theatre and now he would never write an opera again. So go on and sing the last act. Which F. did, during which H. seemed to expire from some fatal gas exhald by F’s larynx. Oh dear, it was so flat.

After we went to La Perla, where Janet had forgotten to book a table, so we waited for a minute or two in the narrow hall and then went down to the basement restaurant, a dozen tables and a fully-stocked bar, but all lights out. Upstairs completely full, so d. st. I suppose is lunch-time stuff. This tiny crisis sparked the evening, at least for me – like the blitz, on a smaller scale. Calves liver and spinach, and ice-cream. Gave me the programme of the London Film Festival and Janet’s got some tickets for the new Isabelle Huppert film.

Friday November 3 1995

Justin left eventually at about ten, he brought some chicken back, and cooked some fried eggs on toast about six, and I helped him to put two chicken legs and chips in the oven. He ate the eggs on toast by seven, I came in and out, and when I finally came in to put the potatoes on, he was picking at the chicken, and was still eating at 7.45. Now I don’t mean I mind that at all, - he has been so considerate of my timetable in the sweetest way – but I had forgotten, the time he takes over his meals. The chicken was congealing on the plate, nearly two hours over a small meal – I can’t imagine anything less appetizing. The nice creature left eventually at about 10-0 for his first night in new digs. Left behind some things, to pick up tomorrow, among them a few novels he’s just bought! How very odd.

Ah, age, I suppose. I keep meaning to go to ‘Clueless’, and then, at the last moment, it’s nicer to stay here.

Saturday November 4 1995

Muslim? woman in front of me at H’smith tube sation and eventually in the lift with me. Black veil to below shoulders but not over her face. A dark grey wollen jacket with thin white pin- stripe every four inches, to below hips, under this, about 4 inches of a yellow beige nylon dress with whitesh flowers over it. Then thick patterned knitted tight-fitting leggings in dull blue- green, over dull green-blue stockings, and huge leather bootees with heavy rubber soles, one hauled along with a pronounced limp. Heavy pale stupid face.

Woke today at 2.15 after sleepless night, had a shrimp cocktail from another of those tins I discovered in Safeway’s, the cheapest (at 95p, does for two lunches) of any of these kind of things. Prawns are so expensive – I love all of them.

Colder but not very cold as yet, but it seems frost tonight outside London, 4º here.

It’s nearly tomorrow, when he’ll be back tomorrow.

Sunday November 5 1995

The TV K gave me is now up here, courtesy of Justin. It’s a little worrying that I couldn’t have carried it up if I’d had to. Now I can’t adjust it for the video without the instructions. I suppose you do it thro’ the remote control. As there are 42 buttons…

Mary L actually told me something new about the Quiet w/end days that I actually wanted to hear. We got on to J.M. Barrie and Peter Pan – never done now, too expensive for one thing, but also I think it’s gone through its second mysterious dating – and that production of Dear Brutus that John G did in 1942, I think. I’d talked of working with Nora Swinburne on what she’s said was to be, and seems to have been ‘my swansong.’ One of the cast of ‘Q w/e’ was Marjorie Gresley, a friend of Nora S. Nora S. called round one afternoon in 1942, - M. thinks to see about Dear Brutus, which she was certainly in – and said, ‘I’ve got to see Binkie, and the white streak is showing in my hair’ – she’d been in the country for some months – ‘Any Bovril about?’ M got some from the dairy opposite, and it worked a treat. Imagine a dairy opp. Wyndham’s.

How often I lie in bed, and hear a car draw up, and then there is the sound of the seventeen doors opening and slamming.

Monday November 6 1995

There seem no depths to the lack of dignity in the Church of England nowadays. An advertising firm was allowed to project a huge advertisement for Wispa chocolate, large enough to cover the whole of it, on to the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. I can just see the clergyman (sic) who authorised it.

So Paul Eddington has died now and so has Mari Caine. What they have in common is that lately they have scarcely been out of the papers being interview about their cancers. I do not admire that. I believe in retiring into ones care and licking one’s wounds. They was quite a feature on Paul E. on both TV news, with time enough for Penny K., Derek F and Nigel Hawthorne to comment. It’s bitter to me to think that D, incomparably a more considerable artist, was not mentioned on the news at all. Words like ‘brilliance’ were bandied about. He was brought on to say what he’d like his epitaph to be. He said, with a careful assumption of ‘thought’, He did very little harm, Most people do a great deal of harm.’

Could anything give a clearer picture of a silly little suburban mind? What chance had I against ‘actors’ like that? The second sentence was accompanied by a whimsical little half-smile. What craft, what technique what timing. Pah.

Some tinklings and ringings about nine, about three or four times. I thought I could hear in the furthest unconnected distance one or two words from him, this even I couldn’t tell what they were. Oh well, he’s back, I thought, he’s all right but his mobile ‘phone isn’t. But after a little longer, there was another call, and a Portuguese telephone-operator whose English was only just good enough for me to hear him say ‘Mr. Malpash is calling and wishes you to pay for the call.’ His flight is delayed for four hours, so he won’t get in till 2 or 3. ‘So I’d better ring Stan and tell him not to wait up or go home or whatever he wants to do.’ ‘How’s the week been?’ ‘Good.’ ‘Never mind about the call.’ ‘Well ring me back.’ ‘It’s good to hear your voice.’ ‘And yours.’

Oh, I loved it, the hum-drumness is all. Still, I want the flight over.

Tuesday November 7 1995

The Independent obituary now says that Paul E. was better than ‘his mentor, John Gielgud.’ In Home, No Man’s Land and, heavens, 40 Years On. I wonder what John thinks. It really is something to say it in his lifetime, quite apart from it being ludicrously untrue. Could there be a better example of standards going sharply down than the preference for the third against the first- rate. Was P. John’s understudy in 40 Years On? Well, he could have been. I am interested that Mary L was a little resistant to my strictures, and gave me another couple of examples of her unreliable judgment. She described Paul E. as ‘A lovely comedian’, even if not so terrific in Home and No M’s L., not that she said that! Miss Bates in our J.A. Reading, was ‘The best thing I ever saw her do.’ Well, D was superb in it, of course, but I think she would be considerably surprised at such a lowering judgment, that a reading was her best thing… How strange that D never really realized what a fitful judge M is. She can’t see Edith E’s supremacy, for instance.

Rang K at 6.0 about the TV. Was the week a success? ‘Wonderful. I didn’t think you could have an erection for a whole week.’

Wednesday November 8 1995

K rang, saying he can’t find the manual of instructions in his filing-system…

How repellent Americans are in their crude simplicity. That black soldier who might stand for president, is dismissed as a dangerous liberal because he is pro-abortion, pro-benefits, pro-reform of the gun-laws by the Christian Coalition Party. Christian? His reforms of the gun-laws, if suddenly obtaining here, would make me feel I was in the middle of a war.

Watched a fleeting second of University Challenge, and found both teams unable to supply the month with which both Eliot and Chaucer began famous poems, but knew the date when some Israel war began.

St. Simon was sawn in half, and carries the saw, as the mark of his martyrdom.

So I waited for K to call again after seven. The tiresomeness of age cannot be expected by the young – nobody is more thoughtful than he is. But there you are. I wait for his call so I cancel my bath, because I wouldn’t hear it, I don’t like to go downstairs because I’d have to come back up to the TV set and remote control, and pick up the ‘phone here, and then go straight back down to hang up the ‘phone here, otherwise it’s all echocy, and I can’t do that comfortably anymore, if at all. Even here, I’m poised to leap up and put on the central light, otherwise I can’t see the buttons on the r. control. You see? Crabbed age and youth…

K rang at 9.0, he still can’t find it. With some defensiveness, ‘My filing-system is impeccable.’ ‘Except that you can’t find it.’ ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow… it may be in the loft.’

Thursday November 9 1995

Really how immoral, - an offer of a new credit-card, the MBNA Gold Card, whatever that may be. I am offered a credit limit of £10,000, ‘Reflecting your financial status.’ Two things occur to me. I thought that somewhere, there was a record of all our ‘credit-rating.’ Obviously not, considering what mine must be like. Or alternatively, it is an insidious invitation to get violently into debt – ‘Use your new MBNA card to pay off the balance on any other cards you may have,’ – your debts, in fact. As I say, really immoral.

No call from K by 6.30 – I expect he’s still in the loft.

To the film this evening, ‘Johnny Mnemonic’ with Keanu Reeves who is getting a little pudgy these days. He’ll either have to slim, or take up acting. The film is a thriller that might have been made any time since the talkies began, and by no means one of the best, except for the obligatory sprinkling of technological effects. I was struck by the lack of imagination, but after thinking about it later, I can see that they are running out of things for the future to be like. When I was a child in the ‘30s a children’s annual had only to sketch a few skyscrapers, a helicopter or two, and some cars flattened a bit more than the ones in the street, and there you were, thirty years on. Now, apart from aforesaid technological effects, which are just a lot of silly jazzy animated diagrams what can you do? Take clothes. Skirts have been every possible length, there can be no new material with a special impact. I didn’t envy the designer.

There was a charming interview with David Hockney who talks a great deal more sense than his critics. On his studio wall was a photo of Cliff Richard, beside a clipping of a seaside rescue, headline, two boys cling to cliff all night.

Friday November 10 1995

More and more progs about transvestism – clever old K to be on the crest of the fashionable wave, as usual. A lorry-driver in a long fair bob and a rather conservative beige suit was asked when he started cross-dressing. ‘When I left the military police.’

Curious that people still discuss UFO’s ‘Unidentified Flying Objects.’ How long can it go on before even the stupid wonder why aliens never appear in proper public and haven’t taken over the world?

Meant to go to new film ‘Living In Oblivion’ but it was at not very accessible cinemas at awkward times.

The Tarzan film was on again tonight, Ralph’s last film. I found I was crying at his certainty and mastery and confident eccentricity. Lots of it is good, and a million miles from the Hollywood series. Well, he was Lord Greystoke… but it has many flaws, mainly in its movement. C. Lambert has his prints and the teen-age T is good, whoever he is, without figleaf. So amusing that Tarzan knew to put on a loin-cloth. A real Tarzan film would be a revelation…

Ralph died before the film was released. They paid tribute by a credit, R.R. 1902-82, or whatever it was. I went with K, in the days when we used to go to the films together, and as we were coming out. K. said ‘Is Ralph Richardson dead?’

Saturday November 11 1995

There is a diary in the Independent every day, which is, to me, unreadable, except when Jo Brand, the feminist comedienne, writes it. I don’t specially like her act, as a lot of it is self- conscious ad her delivery is rather inflexible and lacks resource. But she has mastered the point of newspaper diary that it’s gossip, and the first sentence of each entry must catch you. Also that it must be personal in every way. I was amused when she wrote, ‘If East Enders were really true life, they’d all be sitting in the Queen Vic saying ‘Did you see East Enders last night?’

I went shopping this a.m. after a really bad night, awake till 4.30, and looked in on Books Etc. New biogs of Noel by Kenneth Hoare, Ralph by John Miller, and the other week, of T. Rattigan. Telling all about the gays. I looked up the first possible revelation, Noel’s holiday aged 11 or so in Cornwall, with an artist called Philip Streatfeild. Yes, of course, gay as a coot, lived in Glebe Place, as did Glyn Philpot et al. Seems N. met P.S. because, according to the Streatfeild family rumors, N’s mother was charring for them. Well, there are a good many murky places of one sort and another in N’s story, no doubt. It has been ‘authorised’, no doubt that may be all right. It certainly is got up with all the appurtenances of notes and references, and a great many photos we’re never seen before.

The ‘Ralph’ has, as an introduction, one charming article J.G. wrote when Ralph died. And there, in the T. Rattigan, was a photo of the faun-like little creep that came round, when TR brought our presents up on the first night. Did TR come round after, even to us on the fourth- floor? I think he did.

The British legion asked for the old two minutes silence to be reinstated on a voluntary basis. Well, it was not exactly compulsory before. It caught me while I was shaving, I sat down and thought, as I always do, of Tom Adams. I didn’t know anyone killed in the second war, and nobody connected with me was killed in the first. But a close family friend was Ada Adams, and her young brother was killed in the first war. When I was in the army in London in 1946, I went for some very grateful weekends to stay with her elder sister in Petts Wood. Tom’s photo was, by that time, in the spare-room. He was about the same age as I was then, when he was killed. Ada and her sister have been dead for many years. So I think of him because he had a strong family likeness to Ada, whom I thought brave, and of whom I was fond, and because I don’t suppose anyone else ever thinks of him.

R rang, in answer to my call, no weekend. Good, because he’s too tired anyway.

Sunday November 12 1995

K’s TV set, despite no video, is a great help because the silence and off switches are on the remote control. I need these two switches more than any other. For example, yesterday I switched on and was treated to Vanessa Redgrave and Dotty Tutin rolling on the floor together, kissing and generally getting it going. Well, I mean, really… it was unconvincing tee hee.

Did I record that David Healy had died? Rather sad, as he was only 65, and had had a ‘successful’ bypass operation, ‘But the patient died.’ He was with us in ‘Chance in a Million’, and was a jovial extrovert creature. And Janet and I had a meal with him after the Arthur Miller play the other year. I’m afraid S. and I found him jovial and extrovert to the point of difficulty in keeping a straight face. His laugh, tho’ entirely genuine, would have been a bringing-the-house- down gag in a revue sketch. I’ve sent S. a card saying that if film and tape hadn’t been invented, he would be the last repository of David-Healy-chortle-and-speak, rather like that parrot found in the Brazilian forest speaking the dialect of an otherwise extinct tribe.

Hearing some of the Jewish singing in a programme about the assassination, and being as usual, slightly embarrassed by the open-throated rawness of it. I was reminded of Julian’s singing. And the rumour of Jewish ancestry. Well, perhaps that’s the reason for it – it’s certainly suggested in certain features.

In some programme about wealth, an American millionairess said to Angus Denyton ‘Suddenly I was out of the frying-pan into the fire, that’s an Oklahoma expression. Do you have that in England?’ ‘Yes’.

On Sheridan Morley’s theatre programme they showed a bit of much-praised new Jonathan Harvey play ‘Rupert St? something? something?.’ (By the way, could three income support people find a flat in Rupert St. these days? Wouldn’t it be a tart, or a tacky club or something?)

I was much depressed to find all three actors ‘acting’. All their inflections were stale and taken from other plays they’d seen, I suppose they want to sound like actors, not people.

Monday November 13 1995

Another bad night. Slept eventually at about 5.30. Woke for the ‘papers at 9.30 read them. Dozed off and woke again at ten to four. Which is going it a bit even for me, - it was almost dark again. I find that I have no touch of that depression that is supposed to overcome people when long hours of darkness ‘cause’ something they’ve given an interesting name to.

Beautiful programme about the deaf, presented that charming deaf actor who was in Four Weddings. I remember S saying how much he was impressed by him from every point of view. The only trouble with these disabled programmes, is that they have to be so careful – and they do not often succeed – not to leave one with the feeling that it is really better to be deaf, or whatever.

Poor little Ken B. was interviewed on Barry Norman’s film progr. His new film ‘In The Bleak Midwinter’ sounds a bit gruesome. A rep-company doing Hamlet. Ken has never been in a rep, and if he depends on the inaccuracy of most actors, the film will be far from authentic. For instance, people imagine that weekly rep was chaotic, full of disaster and drying. Not so, I was in it for two and a half-years, - I never remember anyone drying ever, everyone was so practiced at study, - I could learn a page of French’s in duologue after going down the page with an envelope twice. He looked a bit defeated. His hair was a bit shorter, but even so the spring seems to have gone out of it, and him.

Tuesday November 14 1995

Sharron arrived nearly three quarters of an hour early, while I was hovering, and before my bath! However, we know one another quite well enough for it not to matter a scrap. She’d had a bit of a nightmare journey across London – thirty minute wait for a bus in the rain, for instance and so had to cancel having a drink with someone.

She seemed in better spirits again. She told me her father has taken her out to dinner. It was the first time she’d seen him for two years, she said or did she mean she hadn’t sat down with him for two years? Anyway, they went ‘Nothing is too good for my little girl’ to the Inter- Continental. He ordered Frascati. Ah well. He also told her that he would have left her mother ten years ago, ‘But she’d have gone to pieces.’ Her mother cooks like the mother in ‘Butterflies.’

After dinner, swede and parsnip Covent Garden soup, guinea-fowl, (£2.99, special cheap offer in Safeways) she told me about the new man, Chris Priest. ‘He’s not tall, about my height. Very tactile, and clasps himself with excitement, and feels things intensely. We met in the pub and had a lovely conversation with many opinions and tastes in common. He asked if he could walk me home. We kissed at the gate, in fact, we were having quite a heavy snog, so that the lady who owns the house and lives downstairs, had to say Excuse me. Then he said Can I come in for a coffee? I laughed, and said, no, you can’t come in for a coffee, or even a coffee.’ So they have since had two good nights, - he is considerate, warm and obviously good at night. But – he has twice not rang up to make a date when he said he would. Now she’s proposed Thursday and she’s worrying he may not…

I’m thankful that her only mention of K was to say What is K doing? She also told me Alex was also in the pub, and asked Chris was K. I was really tired before she arrived but got through.

Wednesday November 15 1995

I was still tired today, but enjoyed doing nothing.

Watched Four Weddings and a Funeral again, and again found it enchanting.

In J. Grenfell’s letter, she tells of her mother keeping a precious letter from her son under her pillow and kissing it every night before she went to sleep. After some months of this, she thought she’d like to read it again, opened the envelope and found it was a bill from Peter Jones.

Perfect choice of shop.

Thursday November 16 1995

I forgot to say that Sharron’s father apologised for being a bad father. Hm.

Curious the row over immigration. Some people threw paint over that nasty little conservative chairman, - well, I’m all for that. But the issue seems to me, so clear. Of course proven immediate relatives of people already legal residents, and genuine refugees given asylum, as we’ve always done. But surely, with two million unemployed already, it would be foolish and unkind to let people in casually.

It went really cold the first time this p.m. Again I had thought of going to the pictures, and didn’t. It just seemed nicer to stay sitting down in here. The beginning of real old age, no doubt.

Finished the guinea-fowl and cauli, celeriac bubble and squeak.

Friday November 17 1995

So Tristrain Jellinck is dead now, seven or eight years younger than me. When he joined the company at Salisbury in the late 50’s straight from RADA, he seemed then years younger, another generation practically, as is usual when you’re young. He had rather a punch face, fair hair so swept up at the side that you looked for a jeweled clip at the back, and a distinctly superior manner. He felt that weekly rep was a bit beneath him, he was a limited actor, pretty camp and mannered. I don’t think his superiority was at all the result of nerves or shyness. He was convinced of his superior cultivation, not without some justification, as he had been better educated than most of the company, and his father was a distinguished antique-dealer, with a shop on that raised bit opposite Harrod’s. He had a would-be waspish wit, and that very irritating trait of seeing a waspish double–meaning in anything you said. So real conversation was not really possible most of the time. The leading lady, who really did lead the company, darling Maggie Denyer, thought, quite rightly, that he needed taking down a peg. Choosing unerringly the sort of joke that would irritate him most, she always called him Trissie Jellyballs. We were in the company together for eighteen months, I suppose, and I’ve never seen him since, except once or twice on stage and films, and the last as Pawnie in The Vortex down from Glasgow at The Garrick, a few years ago. He was perfectly cast and acceptable. Apparently he left the stage early on, and only came back the last ten years. In between, almost too archetypically, he ran a successful antique shop with his partner. You always think AIDS with gay people, but he seems a bit old for it. Let’s hope the last forty years have made him kinder and more sensible.

K rang Saturday? ‘Now the photos…’ ‘Done.’ ‘The Manual?’ ‘We’ll have to look, all through the filling cabinet…’

Saturday November 18 1995 Sunday November 19 1995

Heavenly evening. Got there at seven, and let myself in, smelling the pleasant casserole that he rung about. I crept in, hearing him in the studio, and always so nervous of making a noise, and ruining a recording. The fire was laid, but not lit, and no electric fire in the drawing-room. So I got some matches from the kitchen, tiptoeing, insofar as I can tiptoe these days, down the creaking stairs, and knelt down to light the fire. He came running up and said ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Lighting the fire. Haven’t I known you long enough?’ ‘You shouldn’t kneel.’ We went to look for the manual, and did look right through the filing-cabinet, including a file marked Angus, which only had two pieces of paper with vague pencillings on them. He finally found the Sony Manual, in the tamest way, in the bottom drawer of the desk in the studio itself with all the other manuals. Then up to the gin and tonics, and the photographs. The technical ones are just what I want, but nearly all of his photos are of outstanding hideousness! He often looks lugubrious, and, seems to delight in angles that emphasise double chins and so on. He wrote the details on the back of the equipment, and to show the sort of concentration he gives to any work, I said something light at one point and he quite snapped, ‘Do you want me to do this or not?’

Dinner was absolutely delicious, the sauce reduced by its slow cooking, and the pheasant falling off the bone. And the fig-tree fell off its dish. Very gradually the seven-foot tree, the one he’s had for – oh, ever since he furnished Bryantwood Rd, and hung his Christmas lights on it – leaned towards the table, quite eerily as if it were moving on his own. He put it back on its dish, saying soothingly, ‘It’s all right, you’re quite safe…’

I don’t know whether it’s leaving Sharron and being back on the market, but he’s started telling again, about sex. After, ‘I didn’t know you could have an erection for a week’, and the wank in the car, this time he told me, when I said there was a midlife crisis at 35 in the paper, he said he sometimes wanked 7 times a day, when he’s working, to stop thinking about sex. Fancy.

I was pleased to hear about his very tall work-load. Seven jobs to be completed before Christmas.

(1) Channel 4. B&W ‘Soap Weekend’. (2) Channel 4’s Christmas campaign. (3) Idents logo. Strongbow lager. (4) Idents and logo. Movie channel in the Middle East. (5) Survival £6000 (6) Library music album for Cavendish Music. (7) Eurovision song contest song.

This last raised my eyebrows, thinking of scornful K of yesteryear. K said Pete Sinfield had suggested it, and when he’d demurred, said, ‘I’m going to do it, and you’re objecting?’ True. P.S. wrote the ‘best’ song of last year, and if it doesn’t hurt him, it certainly won’t K. If it’s a success, it’ll make a mint. If it’s not, well… Either way, no one will remember their names for a one-off. After all, P.S. had a no. 1 for 8 weeks, and nobody knows him.

Valentine, Head of music at Ch.4, said of one of the Ch.4 things, ‘I tried to put them off because you’re so busy, but they wouldn’t let go of your show reel.’ Did I say she’s got MS? Poor girl. He tells me there’s a girl in a wheel chair as receptionist at Ch.4.

The whole evening was heavenly to me, even tho’ I probably won’t see him now till Ch’mas. Oh he’s persuaded Artlette to come over – first time out of Portugal. I’ll have to be there at some point to lend respectability. Of course she’s already suffered a fate worse than death, in fact, by his account, five or six fates a night. I wonder what strict mothers in Rio De Janerio (if there such things) threaten erring daughters with. England seems wicked to Muslims, I know, but others? Oh, it was peaceful and comforting and golden.

Later. Still Sunday. Hazel rang as usual, and amused me by saying she couldn’t drink coffee anymore, she got a piercing headache ‘Within the hour.’ – ‘Oh, so you’re got to have tea.’ ‘No, tea makes me feel sick.’ Then there’s red wine, some fruit juices, not all….’ Well, such is the price you pay for suppressed irritation over yr. marriage and yr. son.

I just remembered my restorative gentle quiet evening with him.

Monday November 20 1995

A quiet morning diversified by a second squittery shit. I had meant to go out and pay bills and to a film, but this rather tied me to the loo. Actually nothing further happened. ‘Something I’d eaten.’ No, I don’t think so, just the rare idiosyncratic behaviour of a very regular bowel.

Nothing to do with it because too soon before, was my lunch, made with whatever there was an omelette, with fried potatoes in the pan already. I poured the egg on the fried pots. And then put grated cheese on the omelette. The pots became crisp and juicy, and it was an indulgence of tiredness.

Darling Sharron rang at sevenish, first her home number, and listened to her recorded message. I was much amused to find that it was delightfully obscene, a mixture of a talk dirty phone-line and a call girls’ message. So good to think that she’s in high enough sprits to do something silly. Quite forgot to record that he’d said Sharron came round on Thursday, for a couple of hours. ‘She’s got a cash-flow problem, so I lent her some money. We had a good hug when she left.’ She hadn’t mentioned to me that she was hard-up, though I did notice she only brought some wine, and not half the dinner, as before. Nor did she mention it now. She asked how K’s blind date had gone on Friday. He hadn’t mentioned it, so I take it, it didn’t come to anything. And he would be quite capable, therefore, of either not thinking it worth mentioning, or forgetting about it altogether.

She told me that Chris Priest didn’t ring about Thursday, so she rang him just now, and he confessed he didn’t want to get involved, because of the failure of his last… Goodness, I’m glad I’m not young these days. The selfishness and foolishness, I don’t know.

Tuesday November 21 1995

Much amused to hear on one of these Australian serials, a character refuse food because ‘We’ve gorged on champagne and canapps.’ Really Australians seem to be more like themselves than you can possibly imagine.

Although I think I avoid some circulars by the notice on the door, I avoid even more by the flight of the steps up to the door. The poor little unemployed can’t be bothered. An extreme case of not bothering made me laugh aloud. Between my house and Margravine, about thirty yards, some hundreds of red leaflets advertising the ease with which Gatwick Airport can be reached were scattered on the pavement, in the gardens, but most of all, in the gutters, as thick as those leaves in…

The royal interview depressed and disgusted me, even tho’ I didn’t watch it. The lack of dignity, the lack of reference, the commonness of it, and the sense of the ignorance of the public at what is being so undermined and harmed, is very painful to me. I am thankful that D is not here to see it, let alone Queen Mary.

Wednesday November 22 1995

Again meant to go the pictures. Again it seemed nicer to stay in. I sometimes wonder if I could have food, drink and laundry delivered, whether I would ever go out at all. It is ironic to remember that, when we were first married, we had everything delivered, when physically we didn’t need it. I am poor now, but I don’t regret a penny I’ve spent on books or food or drinks – or him for a single moment.

Thursday November 23 1995

The West trial in all its horror might have come about to illustrate the second commandment. Badly put, but still fairly clearly. I did not watch the documentaries or read much of the accounts in the papers. It seems some people are much upset at the accounts, cried, didn’t sleep and so on. I can’t say I am upset by them, - of course, I am disgusted and intellectually horrified but not moved. I think because it’s too extreme, almost to the point of farce. It seems for instance, that Mrs. West and Myra Hindley have been getting together in the prison. Myra H must feel her thunder has been rather stolen. ‘How many murders have you done?’ Like that MGM Bronte film.

Friday November 24 1995

Very mild again. No heat in the drawing-room at 8.45. What erratic nights I seem to be having – woke at five-fifteen, read and dozed, and woke at 9.30. Read papers and didn’t doze again, which is an improvement on the shape of a day.

At last I got to a new film, the Basketball Diaries. A poorish film, full of clichés, and with a voiceover reciting bits of something Americans are so apt to mistake for good writing. My attention kept wandering, and I would have left except for the leading actor Leonardo Di Caprio. This lanky boy, with stick-like arms and legs and huge hands, was as good as a poorish film would let him be. There is technique and intense feeling there, and I look forward to seeing him in Total Eclipse. Weren’t Rimband’s hands huge? He must be better than Hilton Macrae.

I know I’m not fond of, or interested in children, but I do feel for them when I see, as all too often I do, failed adults, unable to grow up, feed on their freshness.

Still very mild.

Saturday November 25 1995

Justin rang this p.m. to say could he come and stay from Tuesday… as his landlord (sic) had been even ruder and more offensive, ‘and if you aren’t out by the set date, I’ve got friends in the East end who…’ I take all this with a pinch of salt, knowing that Justin can veer to the perfervid side. All the same what a nasty little creep that little publisher must be. I must find out what his surname is and what publisher he works for.

Sunday November 26 1995

Had just under £2 left, and brought a piece of cheese £1.14, 1 pepper 39p, a tomato, 4p, the concomitant parts of a nice-dish with the end of the lamb.

There’s a lot of fresh fuss about the Beatles, six pages about them, authorised stuff: The first seemed very banal to me, and even more so the first hit, Love Me Do. Was it the B’s who started the ghastly sort of lyric that consists of two lines endlessly repeated? For that alone someone needs to repent in hell fire. And how arch and self-conscious are those little ‘spontaneous’ waggling’s of Paul McCartney’s head.

The programme about the ‘charismatic’ vicar in Sheffield quite caught me. How easily people are gammoned! The absurd vulgarities that have crept, and sometime bounced into every denomination in the last seventy or so years, like all such popularity grabbing expedients have been forced to become more and more vulgar. Like any drug, the dose has to be increased. Daddy was the first in B’mouth to floodlight any building, let alone a church. There were ‘special’ services which brought the crowds in, in droves. He went out in a boat, with loudspeakers in it, and held services every half mile on Sunday afternoon, to try and make the sun-bathers feel guilty, or at any rate, sing hymns. Of course, that was the thin end of the wedge – plenty of entertainment to distract you from the realities of worship and prayer, of course, now Chris – no, that’s Sharron’s ex – Chris Priest – this one is Chris Brain – has soared beyond even guitars and hippies, into elaborate disco effects, lots of scenery, not to mention fucking twenty or thirty (female) members of the congregation. Of course, it was under the guise of something or other… Anyone or anything opposing Chris was opposing God. Fancy! Can’t they tell a phoney when they hear one. No.

The lack of capacity in the clergy is pitifully evident in the reaction of the Bishop and Deans attempting to deal with the crisis their foolish support of a charlatan has brought about. After all, nobody with any courage or intelligence or creativity would be a clergyman nowadays.

Monday November 27 1995

In the p.m., late p.m. as the perf was 4.40, to new film ‘Living in Oblivion’. It was written and directed by Tim Dicillo, who wrote and directed Johnny Suede. It is a witty affair about making of a low-budget film. The detail is accurate, - the leading man in the film has long blond hair, and may be a dig at Brad Pitt’s starry behavior. I laughed a lot, but I don’t think a lay audience would find it so funny. Film life is already so unreal to them. Streets and tubes already full of the dreaded Christmas rush.

Tuesday November 28 1995

A dream this a.m. I was on the cottage path and woods, and some dogs were approaching, could I get to the cottage-gate in time? Now there is no symbolism or overtones of any kind in this. It is just plain fact. I can’t actually recall being scared of dogs on the path, but the sensation in the dream was exactly what it would be in life, and just as trying. I woke myself up.

How shaming it is to find oneself as much a creature of reflex actions as a rabbit. I am still leaning forward to press non-existent buttons on K’s TV. The remote control is absolute, and I never need to leave my cushions.

The nasty landlord Justin suffered under, is Mark More O’Ferrall. Must be a relation of George More O’Ferrall, the well-know BBC man.

In the p.m. to another new film, - at last, ‘Clueless’ at Fulham. No tiresome teenagers flooding about this time, only two other people there, quite funny, because it was successfully all in the same tuned-up tone.

Wednesday November 29 1995

Listened to President Clinton’s speech to Parliament. I was moved by the warmth of his praise for England and it’s institutions, and the confirmation of the ‘special relationship.’ So much self-denigration goes on here now, you would think England had never done anything worth mentioning, instead of being the most wonderful country on earth. He seems to me rather an open creature. No brains of course.

I am amused to find that I have forgotten to mention that Justin moved back in yesterday. He brought all his stuff, filling the room from floor to ceiling. He now has his own TV set, but that hasn’t stopped him wanting to come up here while I’m having dinner. Really none of my lodgers have wanted the sort of privacy I wanted as a lodger myself, except possibly Jeff Rann.

The other Robin from Central St. Martin’s, rang to offer my R. three days works at the coll. In December. I just can’t have him for the w/e – money.

Thursday November 30 1995

A couple of degrees colder today, but still mild.

Mr. Magoo Cartoon where he made mayhem during an opera. The resulting chaos would receive dazzling notices at Coliseum.

The man who wrote the I Spy books has dies. He was born a month before Daddy in 1889 and was therefore 106. What luck one has…

I am really intrigued at two ‘pop’ successes. There is a programme called Movie Watch, where four young people, student age, different each week, vote for the four or five films of the week. Last week, to my amazement, against the competition of The Crimson Tide, a big thriller, number one in the West End, and La Haine and a couple of others, they voted for The Sound Of Music.

And too thirtyish actors, Robson Green and Jerome Flynn, ‘stars’ of an army series called Soldier Soldier, sang on the series, at a regimental concert, I suppose. They were encouraged to put out a record of Unchained Melody, and it went to the top of the pop list, and onto Top Of The Pops - and reached number one. Then I Believe did the same, and stayed there for weeks. Their album is now number one, above the Beatles Anthology.

They sing together rather like a slightly more up market Flanagan and Allen, and it is instructive to see how much better experienced actors are at ‘putting over’ a song, as opposed to singing it, than most pop singers. Their slightly battered but intensely masculine looks, their little smiles of complicity at each other, their use of their eyes over the audience, all contribute to their success. All the same, I’m surprised at the violent success of old songs.

Friday December 1 1995

Still very mild, in the 50s.

Yesterday pressed the eject button of video-recorder, and found it stuck in sideways. I had not pressed it violently the day before, so I think it was plastic fatigue. I rang the video firm, and they said the repair man would call today. ‘Morning or afternoon?’ ‘We can only give you a 9-6 appointment.’ A bit of a tortoise sitting listening for the bell all day. He turned up at 11.0 a small rather dispirited man – well, wouldn’t you be? – quite unresponsive to any overtones, humourous or otherwise. He cleared the videos off the trolley gloomily, took the video to pieces gloomily – ‘The plastic’s gone. Got any superglue?’ I went downstairs to get the little tube, wondering meekly whether it might not be more usual for a workman to bring his own tools? He looked at it gloomily, opened it with his pliers – he had brought those – and, with an access of gloom, said ‘It’s hard, no good!’ He removed the offending button, and said I’d get a new video, ‘The Super-8, you know those figures by a programme, you just press those figures.’ ‘Ah’ I said, ‘splendid.’ Goodness knows what he was talking about, - I just wanted the gloom out of the house. ‘I’ll just ring them and let them know about the new one. It’s probably engaged.’ He started on my dear old dial telephone. ‘Someone’s bound to slip in between, with the speed of this thing.’ Even deeper gloom descended after those ponderous circlings. I said, ‘I’ve got a radial button on the kitchen ‘phone.’ We went down and, after a few moments when he refused to see the ‘phone on the wall, I left him starting to complain to someone about something else.

Saturday December 2 1995

Rang K. ! to say was this the soap weekend he’d done the logo stuff for, yes, it was. Lovely just to have four sentences. He has little idea of how I miss him, but of course what could he say? When he’s working, unlike most people, he does literally nothing else, tho’ he did get to Sharron’s b’day. I suppose I’ll hear more of that later, tho’ he’s pretty useless reporting on such affairs. They’ve started on C4 Christmas campaign, and he sounded ‘up’. Good.

Goodness, I was half amused and half disgusted at an article in the centre pages of the Daily Mail, written round child prodigies, one of the four being Tom Holt. You never feel the poverty, commonness, and infinite capacity for error, of the journalistic mind really keenly, until they write about someone you know. Poor Geoffrey comes off worst, he’s ‘a travelling shoes salesman’ and later described as ‘literate’ – that’s a relief to someone who’s been to Cambridge. And both of them are described as ‘proud middle class parents.’ Didn’t Geoffrey finish up as Managing Director of Clark’s? I forget, it was M.D. certainly. Of course, Tom’s ironic, and rather embittered off hand manner, is the worst possible for a cheap tabloid interview.

What a strange life I live now, in solitude and silence and poverty. No drink today or tomorrow, and no talk either, except for the random chance of Justin being here. It is so interesting that, after my long and active social life, none of my friends, except him, ask me what I do all day. And by this time, I suppose it’s too late for them to ask whether I miss acting.

Sunday December 3 1995

So Hazel was rather more depressed and less amused than I’d thought. Tom said, or conveyed, that he’d had a thoroughly wretched and bullied childhood. This had badly upset Geoffrey. I said, ‘Do give him my sympathy, and he mustn’t let it matter.’ ‘I shall never mention it to him again.’

No doubt I might behave the same if it were D or K. In retrospect, how sensible and clever was D’s treatment of popular journalists, by being odorless, scentless, tasteless, and dull. Russell Harty’s sidekick took her out to lunch and found her too uninteresting for his boss to interview.

Another day, entirely without drink, but, after a lifetime of moderate drinking, I don’t feel any sort of Lost Weekend ‘craving’, just the missing of pleasure. It’s supposed to get colder. Possibly, but tonight I turned the fire off at 9.0, as I was too hot.

How curious almost everyone is about television. I don’t mean inquisitive. Tonight I was watching an early (1983) film of Kevin Kostner’s with its piercing reminder that we were all young and slim once, when Justin came back from an evening with his sister, and started to talk. I enjoyed the talk with him as I generally do, except for the self-absorbed bits about him, since he has at once very little knowledge of himself and others, and the delusion that his psychological insights are searching and profound. He almost always rejects any adjective that you offer to open his eyes to the truth. His poor sister had a weep over some difficulty in her own life, and the complete lack of direction in his life. As she well might. And it might have been nice to be asked if I wanted to go on watching the film.

Monday December 4 1995

In Ego J.B. Priestly and J.A have an argument about the state of theatre and criticism. Both of them say often, that they devoted ‘long and earnest thought’ to their respective sides of the problem. Both of them are patently incapable of long and earnest, let alone deep or complex thought.

Forgot to say that Hazel said yesterday that ‘The Beatles ruined popular music.’ She really did stop then.

Justin told me that his friend Darren was coming round, and could he bring him up to say hello. Yet again, before they arrived, I turned off the fire at 9.30, because I was too hot.

To my surprise Darren, whom I had only met once at the back door, came up by himself. Further to my surprise, he was smartly dressed in a black waistcoat, stiff collar, pin-striped trousers. He looked like a butler interrupted while cleaning the silver. ‘What are you up to now?’ ‘I’m a butler.’ This certainly confirms the rumour that all ‘proper’ servants are as gay as trivets. Darren is solidly built, presentable-looking at a cursory glance, all most servants get, and the queenist queen. He works in a sauna from time to time, and has an accent compounded of East End queenliness, and strikingly poor diction, almost to the point of impediment. He retailed a good deal of gossip, most of it second-hand royal gossip. (Well, someone in the Royal Household has some sense, that is was only second-hand), but less than fourth-rate. Pr. Andrew is gay, Pr. Margret has had a face-lift etc. Really, who would be Royal or famous these days?

K rang at 10.15 for a chat! Lovely. I said I supposed I would meet Arlette. ‘You’ll be the first, after we come back from Scotland’ ‘Scotland?’ ‘Yes, she wants to see snow. And she must come to you, to see a real Victorian.’ I hope he meant the flat…

It is difficult to put oneself into a frame of mind which perceives Scotland as exotic. He sounded in good spirits, not tired.

Tuesday December 5 1995

There is an actress called in a TV programme called Emmerdale Farm, whose name is Tonicha Jeronimo.

In the p.m. out in what proved to be the first piercing cold of the winter. To face the east wind face on, was as icily cold as I think I’ve ever felt. It is it seems, actually direct from Siberia, and it is not difficult to believe. To film Mad Love, and a walk of quarter of an hour there and back from Gloucester Road tube. Directed by Antonia Bird, who I worked for in Docklands, it stars Chris O’Donnell, a nice anodyne young man, and Drew Barrymore, a nervy strung girl with the unmistakable features of her family. I wonder how many people are left who would know anything about John Drew. By the way, whose child is she? John Drew Barrymore, fine- looking for a bit, and with a talent that went largely unused, was, I think, the child of the John Barrymore’s last years. She could be his, I suppose – he must be in his late ‘50’s now, if he’s survived being a Barrymore that long. The film got bad notices. I didn’t think it bad at all, of course everyone wasn’t dead or maimed at the end of it, a bad mark just now, for a film centering around a mental case.

Wednesday December 6 1995

That sudden and vivid impression that TV can give you, of intense stupidity and prejudice.

Went to pee in my basin, leant round the curtain to see who was going out and peed all down the front of my cassock dressing-gown. Curiosity pissed the gown.

There’s another mad cow disease scare. So I was glad to find a big rump steak reduced to a manageable £1.80, nearly half-price, it was ‘peppered’ – three heavy bars of ground pepper across it, which had made it fifty pence dearer. Washed the pepper off, and relished the steak. How odd other people’s tastes are compared to mine. If I had not washed it off, I would have tasted nothing but burnt pepper, and burnt my mouth.

I am hoping that Justin will start looking for a room soon. It’s quite pleasant to have him about for a bit, - today he did some shopping for me, and is paying rent of botts of gin and whisky. Still I’d like my privacy back some time. He’s just, after a fortnight, put his suits in the space I made in the wardrobe. That doesn’t look like going.

An interview with the two eldest children of the serial killers, the Wests, was curiously moving. There was no interviewer or questions apparent, though obviously they were responding to some sort of shaped structure. Sitting side by side, they first struck me by their stillness and composure. Next, by their simple good sense and common sense. They were so fluent without being glib. Not a word jarred, even when they said they still loved their father and mother. How have they survived that childhood?

Tuesday December 7 1995

Good gracious. David Gilmore will be fifty about now.

The West boy was on This Morning, and reduced me to tears by his simplicity ‘I believe your father said you must sleep with your mother when you were sixteen. What did you say to that?’ ‘I said nothing. I didn’t look at him, we never look and mum and dad in the eye. I said nothing.’ Later he said, ‘They say the abused go on to abuse. I am determined to break that cycle.’ We saw a photo of him, his wife and their twins. There’s another baby on the way. Again he did not put a word wrong. He expressed love for his parents. ‘But I shall always hate what they did.’ There was no suggestion of craving publicity, or personal gain – he has written a book to help himself - only a desire to bring good out of evil.

Have I said that K wants to borrow my kilt for their Scotland trip? So I rang Roy, and we had a long and satisfying talk about the Wests, about which he felt as I did.

America have fired something at Jupiter at 100,000 miles an hour. What will it do to the rest of the universe? Poor little unimaginative scientists have no idea and I daresay don’t care, judging by their usual blinkered lives. The clip I watched of the thing streaking thro’ hitherto virgin space, was accompanied by the playing of Solemn Melody. I wonder if I shall live to see protest over the pollution of space, as in the Brazilian rain-forests. My generation is poised between the innocence of H.G. Wells’ optimism and the Polytechnic scientist of today.

Got to the launderette at last, and there was that nice fatalist Irish lady. Now I have misjudged Justin. He goes out tonight to see a place at the Oval. Hm, fairly dicey area. Not just rough, but perhaps next to a factory.

Later. When he came back, he’d had a half-hour chat, and I think the man was too interested in him. Well, as he got it through the Sydney St Brothel, why was he surprised? We’ll see.

Friday December 8 1995

How odd one’s body is. I seem to have stopped sleeping in till quarter past four or even till half past ten. Although it is now cold, and you might think one needed more stoking with food, it is now some weeks since I came down and ‘tucked in’ at 12.30. I made some porridge and never ate it, for instance. But the dozing off again after the papers, morning after morning, I cannot account for not doing that at all.

In the p.m. to Fulham again to see new film Murder In The First. Some goodish acting, but a very stupid clever clogs director, who couldn’t keep his brains or his camera still.

On the way back saw again that small white-painted tank-like object, parked at the corner of Wetherby and Bina Gardens. It has some man-hole covers, a cage at the back with ‘something’ inside and marked in three places with the logo and name of United Nations. What can it be?

Justin came back and said – oh, I saw that… that was yesterday.

I see that there are Richard Clayderman and James Last fan-clubs. Goodness, the horror. Still, square pegs in square holes, both fan clubs are based in… Woking.

Went along to Tesco’s, and found my reflexes are as quick as ever. I was walking through the drink shelves, and the edge of my wire basket must have caught a bottle of something, and it fell to the floor behind me with a crash. I suppose it’s what made me an actor, but I walked on without the slightest sign. I paid nervously, thinking the manger… and left. Oh, dear, and I couldn’t have paid, and I am not so honest as I was. Perhaps honesty is only for those with a viable income. No word or sign from R.

Saturday December 9 1995

Went out unshaven, with clothes over my pajamas, to get a ½ bott. of whisky, all I could afford. Saw how one could turn into a wreck of a soak in a very dirty mac.

Sunday December 10 1995

A slight improvement on yesterday – went out shaven, to pick up clean laundry, but still in my old mac. I am always surprised at the difference food makes to feeling the cold. I know it’s fuel, but it works so quickly that, by the coffee, I’m almost full.

A good example of Mary’s L’s smooth tact and power of ingratiation. She told me of her friend. Judy something. We met her once or twice, - was she in one of the companies? She was an understudy, like M. – a tall plain girl, who was a great admirer of D’s, I seem to remember. Anyway, Judy is now sixty-ish, has spent most of her life looking after her mother, now dead, in a four story house in Deal, I think? Stuffed with antiques. ‘Only the other day she sold four or five things, for £1000, and you couldn’t tell they’d gone.’ She is, of course, a professional invalid, like all M’s friends, - except me, and I’m getting nervous… she has tried to commit suicide three times, in one incident, remaining in hospital for three months, went back home, tried again.

I heard all this at some length, in M’s alas very imitable style, with every detail of entry and exit and movement and ‘And all of that’ – how that phrase recalls the tiresomeness of her and Prim’s semi-educated talk – when she seemed to have finished, and I’d said how sorry I was for Judy something’s miserable life, I went on to say, ‘But surely, if the house is so large with only a poor boiler in the basement and wiring that only allows one bar of an electric fire to be used, and there are antiques to be sold which…’, ‘Oh, darling’, pitying downwards-inflected laugh, ‘I can’t go into all that, we’ve gone through all that so many times.’

Yes, I see, it’s all my fault really, for being so unfeeling about illness and pain…

Monday December 11 1995

Well, my entry of the 8th was perhaps a little premature. Dozing off after the papers, I slept in till 12.30

I wish he could ring for a chat more often, but what would he have to say, except his life in the studio, and trips to the super-market, and perhaps the trannies.

Suddenly plucked the Bachelors from the shelves. I had half-forgotten how very good M. Sparks is, and how exactly to my taste with her economy and concision and wit and fun. And her a Catholic.

Roy rang during ‘The Strike’ to tell me to watch it, but I saw it originally, and was watching Barry Norman. He rang back after, and I had a long chat with both of them. It seems the NZ holiday is partly fuelled by giving up the idea of buying a house. A pity.

Tuesday December 12 1995

The Radio Times has arrived in its huge Christmas double volume, and promising us 800 films over that time. No comment.

Except to say that, in giving ‘E.T.’ the full five stars, the critic says in his blurb, that it ‘reaches out to the child in all of us.’ Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever had that sort of child in me. I remember. I left the silly thing long before the end.

Mary L asked me to send Dione Ewin the lyrics of two of the SD songs! ‘Because she can’t remember the words, and it’s driving her mad.’ Looked for and couldn’t find the script….

Justin, to my fascinated interest, went off to visit a don at King’s, rooms in Gibb, and had just rang to say he’s staying the night. He says the don seemed to know my name. ‘I think he’s older than you.’ ‘Well, try and find out when he was an undergraduate.’ ‘Oh, he wasn’t at Cambridge, he was at Liverpool.’ Name, Rodger.

Wednesday December 13 1995

Elaborate theatre dream this a.m., first time for some time. No question of trying to get to the dressing-room up endless stairs thro’ treacle. I was on stage throughout getting laughs and wondering how I knew the lines. Didn’t recognise any of the actors.

Derrick Marr rang, for a change, instead of me ringing him. Had been to see Mack and Mabel, which he’d ‘adored, and it was packed’. Also retailed malicious details of the commonness of Ba Barrington’s parents, and much emphasis of their Jewishness. ‘I could never get on with her, never get through to her.’

Now re-reading Memento Mori. I completely agree with G. Greene and E. Waugh’s opinion.

Thursday December 14 1995

Half dozen Christmas cards among them one from Tim and Pru West, ‘Hoping to see you sometime in 1996.’ Out of another, dropped a cheque from Roy for £300. Oh such a surprise, - I can pay the telephone bill, and treat or two beside. After the first excitement, I worked out that it wouldn’t be cleared by the Halifax till the Wednesday after Christmas. I then had a rather abortive exchange with Justin, in case he could cash it, but alas, it was crossed as well as made out to me, so he couldn’t pay it in. As Roy is coming round with the kilt, I said I’d get him to change the cheque, to Justin. Just as we’d decided that, to my delight K rang, to ask me to ‘do me a favour as you said.’ – ‘Yes, yes.’ I said. She (his mother) wants a sponge for her birthday, so I said I’d come up and get his credit card, draw out money for the sponge and £300, and I’d pay Roy’s cheque into his account. Good. Killing birds with stones. ‘How’s the work going, up to schedule?’ ‘Yes, four down, three to go.’ It isn’t his Strongbow, that was only a promo.

Card from Ba Barrington, saying ‘I’m slowly recovering from my op.’ What op?

Had to Ring Roy to see when he was coming round with the kilt, just before six, he came, rather smart – going to two parties – finer drawn, more settled and handsome and grown up. Well, success, and a good woman, and a baby and money. Good woman first. Told me Eileen A had breast cancer. Oh.

Friday December 15 1995

Bitterly cold and damp. Put up my umbrella tho’ I could feel no rain, and found it running when I got to K’s. Slipped in quietly and tiptoed towards the studio noises. Put my head carefully round the corner, as a voice said ‘Is that you Kev?’ Simon Strokes is it? His partner in Noiseworks. So we shock hands, and I found exactly what I guessed from K and the photographs. A pleasant completely unthreatening young man – the likeness to K is only one that could occur to K’s lack of observation – pleasantness itself, is I am sure is a good partner for K. I sat in

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 138

December 15 1995 - February 5 1996.

Friday December 15 1995 (cont). a director’s chair in the back half of the studio listening to the ingenious stuff Simon was fiddling with. K hadn’t been in the sitting room or kitchen. Loo? No light. After five minutes or so, heard movement about waited again for him to come down. Went up and found him lighting the fire in the sitting room, ‘How long have you been here?’ accusingly. ‘I was chopping wood. Found card for his mother, wrote Mum on the envelope, gave me his credit card - number still my telephone number – some practical talk, said he had only three hours sleep last night, ‘Thank you for doing this.’ A big hug and off I went, having, I hoped, wasted as little time as possible. Stopped off at the Piccadilly Nat. West, and got £200 out. Home to lunch, and then out again to Selfidges. It’s strange how life seems to arrange that I have to be in Oxford St. just before Christmas. I paid £20 into my account at Self. bought sponge, £18.50 about five inches across, so I included a loofah as well, £1.95. Down to the basement, in the queue for the gift-wrapping. When I heard that the average price was £6.00 and the average time an hour, I decided to go with K’s suggestion of a jiffy bag. I looked for my diary, and could find nothing like it. I tried to buy a jiffy bag, and after waiting through ten minutes of two boy shop assistants exchanging news, I didn’t bother to buy it or the bottle of ink I thought I might as well replace. So that had been, third floor, gr. floor, basement, and gr. floor again. Back home, packed the jiffy bag – to Hammersmith and stood in a long queue at the post office. Posted Parcel. Shopped at Tesco’s. Can hardly crawl.

Later. Somewhat revived by drink and food.

In the tube on the way back, I was in the middle of all the school children going home. Two boys of about ten or eleven got on in neat school uniform and ties. They both had glossy black hair, little Beatles (I suddenly see that The Beatles appealed to infantilism, because that’s how young boys’ hair naturally falls.) When they turned round, I saw that they were startlingly identical twins. They had fine pale skin that goes with that black hair, delicate little snub noses, lively faces, intelligent faces. One of them settled down opposite me, produced a large paperback with the Camb. Univ. press mark, opened it forty or so pages in, and read. The other had to sit on his hold-all, and to my amazement, produced the same book, open at the same place. There was a seat next to his twin, he took it, and my double vision was whirled away into the tunnel.

It was piercingly damp and cold and damp.

Oh, he’s had a p.c. from Nigel, saying he chats up NZ girls with ‘You’re my little Kiwi spanner.’ ‘Spanner?’ ‘Yes, you tighten my nuts.’ Nigel in a nutshell.

I wonder if it works. Certainly I’ve never know him to be without a girl anywhere.

Saturday December 16 1995

An article in the Independent about actors’ pay, and quite an eye opener to me after only four years out of it. The ‘humiliating’ minimum is well over £200 a week, which would be riches to me now. And Dame Judi is struggling along on £41,000 a year, tho’ given plenty of time by the careful National schedule to play, for instance, ‘M’ in Goldeneye and so on, so as to boost her income to the ‘proper’ level. I am afraid the stars take too much, as they always have.

It was lovely having a few pounds to spend carelessly, £100 went on the telephone bill, which I was so worried about, my one extravagance was a bott. of Chateauneuf Du Pape, which I love. £8.00. Poor, and tasteless. But even a little bit of money illustrates so vividly ‘to those that hath… it shall be given.’ In that I was able to buy five BASF video for £7.99, the amount people buy in the supermarket!! I know from the people upstairs how much is wasted.

Justin regales me with some sad little vignettes of the street gay life. Liam works at Harvey Nichols, and he had some adverse criticism for his alcoholic breathe. He met an old flame, Barry, who… etc etc. He seems to have no feeling for the trivial shallowness of it all. He went out to the shops, and on his way I used his youth to spring up on the front-garden wall, and cut the last rose of summer for Sharron’s Leytonstone rose.

Sunday December 17 1995

I see that Linda McCartney has breast-cancer. How horrible for anyone, and specially after her very what I think they now call, high-profile devotion to vegetarianism and health. I am afraid her cancer must have come as more of a shock, because of her ‘Dead, but they all ate organic rice.’ However, I may easily be maligning her as perhaps, no definitely, she is not so silly as she has been reported in the papers over the years. I expect she suffers from the usual American inability to say what she means in unaffected words.

Still very damp, - went to H’smith in my pajamas again.

Monday December 18 1995

Another tiringish day. To get my pension, two weeks of it, £120. A hundred paid the telephone bill, and the rest paid the tax-installment. Roy’s cheque has been a lifesaver. Drew out the last £20 of it from K’s account, and then up to K’s to put the card thro’ the door, without him hearing anything, I hope, though he has ears like an owl. On the way back, and the trains a bit awry, I wanted to pee badly enough to get out at Green Park. Awful to be in a stranded tube-train and wanting to pee. I remembered there are loos at G.P. and they’re still free, must be about the last free ones in central London, except in the big shops.

Nearly finished Ballad Of Peckham Rye. So good, - the list of clichés for ghosting an autobiography, brilliant. Finishes ‘once more fate intervened.’

Later. Found K. had rung while I was out – perhaps outside his door. Rang him back. He said he’d rung to say tonight was free, and would I … for the first time I said no, because I know how tired he must be, and I think he was relieved. I said Just sit down and drink and watch a rude movie. ‘A rude movie?’ He once said he’d never bought a nudie mag… it was a wrench.

Tuesday December 19 1995

Another miserably cold damp day, brightened by the arrival of Hazel and Geoffrey’s present, which was happily not the two bottles of Wine Society wine. For the past four or five years, these bots. have impressed me by their wateriness vinegariness, that the Wine Society is for people don’t like drinking. Instead they sent a jiffy bag from a Somerset firm called Brown and Forrest who specialize in smoked fish. There were two copies of a leaflet about smoked eel, with a certain need to ‘sell’ an unfamiliar fish. It was ‘charmingly’ produced. I wonder how long they’ll last. They plaster their ‘wares’ on a gold plastic card, under tight and presumably air-tight and sterile conditions, on mine were three irregular strips, one of smoked salmon, (until I read it more closely, and found it was smoked trout) a big thick piece of smoked eel, and some dainty slices of smoked duck. I had the trout and a slice or two of the duck for lunch. It is good, not so salty as some, and the duck flavoury. Acceptable.

Went out to pay video hire at Shepard’s Bush. The Metropolitan line did its worst, ten minutes or more wait in the freezing cold, and on the way back, the late train stopped for five mins just outside Hammersmith, with me standing. In the end I could have walked there and back in less time, If I were younger.

While I was having my Gin and Tonic a bit of ear-wax fell out of my good ear, it was a little bigger that a peppercorn, dark brown and hard – I couldn’t crack it. It’s been crackling around just out of reach for some time. I wish it would happen to my deaf ear.

Watched an interesting programme of reminiscences and clips of Peter Cook. Everyone agreed that he was greatly gifted, fiercely intelligent, very attractive and so on. Judging by his four guests on Clive Anderson’s show, his ‘great gifts’ were not in the slightest degree in abeyance. Everyone more or less, also agreed, in Barry Humphries words, that ‘he took his great gifts perhaps too lightly.’ None of them seemed to be able to conceive of the ‘great gifts’ or ‘intelligence’ being applied to anything except his work. He sounds to me as if he had a perfectly satisfactory life. Tho’ how someone with great gifts etc. could marry a girl like Judy Huxtable I don’t know. Fuck, yes, but marry, no. I bet she’s a disappointed hard-faced complaining old nag by this time.

Oh, I had a good chat with Sharron last night, except that she said dismissively, ‘Well, I’m sure Kevin will buy her a nice warm coat’, when I said I hoped Arlette wouldn’t feel the cold too much. She uses that tone that I always hate people to use of K. As if he’s some sort of Joke. However, I am comforted by the fact that nobody uses it in his presence. I suppose one of the reasons for it is their recognition and resentment of the strength of his personality. He never does things for effect – sometimes I wish he would!

Wednesday December 20 1995

Poor Justin was looking like thunder over his chicken and chips. (Left to himself, he only seems to vary that with lasagna and chips, and steak and kidney pie and chips – have never seen anything green pass his lips.) It turns out that little creep, More O’farrell, has replied to the housing benefits in such terms that his benefit has just been refused. How malicious.

Oh dear, Christmas. The serious progs. become foolish, and the foolish ones become unspeakable. Today in Kensington High St., one of the Safeways checkout women, middle aged and fat, her face frowning with Christmas preoccupations, came bustling out of Boots wearing a Father Christmas hat she’d forgotten she had on.

A nice little surprise, a cheque for £25, for ‘Dr. Who’ nearly twenty years ago. Watched a bit of a Carry On film for almost the first time. Set in a maternity hospital, it began promisingly with a sign ‘All deliveries at rear.’ But almost at once it became embarrassingly feeble, and I have always found Kenneth Williams painfully unwatchable.

Justin went off to his suddenly-announced ‘lover’ – fuckee, more likely – in glittering South Tottenham. So I had to go out after dinner and get some more whiskey. At the shops in F. Pal. Rd, it’s surprisingly a pound less than the supermarkets. K rang. Is going to come to dinner with S, too. Is going to ring up and invite himself. What joy.

Thursday December 21 1995

Justin had a ‘friend’ called Barry round for an afternoon session, so I was glad to escape the faint embarrassment by going off to my hair appointment. Bay Rum is satisfying. And brought some of my life-long Eau de Portugal thro’ dear Roy.

When Justin came up to say goodbye, he brought the equivalent of the rent, - 1 bott. Gin, 1 bott. Scotch – but both were large bots. and a large bot. of tonic and a bot of Cote De Rhone. He is a dangerously lavish boy, to himself I mean.

In the evening to film with Janet. ‘Seven.’ A thriller with Brad Pitt, and Morgan Freeman, very violent, and frantic, but well done and well acted. It has partly restored my faith in B. Pitt. A real flaw was the relentlessly loud heavy-metalish ‘suspense’ music. If suspense ‘music’ is constant there is no suspense.

On the way in, stopped at Algerian Coffee shop, and got Janet a little packet of ginger-bread men biscuits, she gave me a box of sugar swizzle sticks. We spent about the same on each other, £1.20, I should think. I had toyed with the thought of getting her some marron glacés. A box about four inches square turned out to be £11.50, and no wonder – on the counter a bowlful of them were priced at £1.50 each.

Friday December 22 1995 Saturday December 23 1995

It is 5.30 on Saturday, and I am just recovering from yesterday. I don’t know why my three dearest friends have to be crammed into one day.

Rang John to find it was going to be the Pelican as usual, very restful. We had scarcely sat down before he said, ‘Well, had something sensational to tell you last time, and so I have this time. I’ve resigned.’ He’s going to be a director of the Royal Academy Trust – I think. Anyway, it’s fund-raising again. ‘I looked at the other directors. It’s like being at the fishmongers, – you look for the fresh glint in the eye.’ He told me three things Dennis Marks said when he told him ‘He went red, then white, Of course you are quite right to want to move on and expand your position. Pause, I’ll offer you £70,00 if you’ll stay. Pause. The company are thrilled with your work.

As John said, ‘£70,000 is more than double what I’m getting now. And ‘thrilling’ is not really the word for fund-raising. I said I’d settle for remarkable.’ Those three reactions convinced me more than anything J’s told me of Dennis Marks’ incapacity for administering a major opera company. Their old PR woman has come back after seven years or so, being PA to Peter Hall. After only a week, she said to J ‘You said it was bad, it’s terrible. How can we get rid of him?’ not whether…

Potted crab and delicate bit of salad. Then fillet of trout in a light buttery sauce with little squares of fried pepper. Lovely. He ordered me three glasses of wine all at once, they had no half-bots. why not? Uncivilized, as a ½ bot. is just right for someone dining alone.

Joyce is better, but there is a problem of her ‘transference’ on her psychiatrist, that is, an obsession…

Thanked him for the usual case of wine. He is the dearest man, and deserves his new job. He has a special gift for diplomacy without losing integrity. He doesn’t change.

Only a few years ago, I might have gone shopping, to the cinema, visited someone and gone on to dinner with Simon or K. but I went home and was in bed by 3.30

As I now have no overcoat, I cannot take the very old mac with the detached lining to a smartish restaurant, so I was glad that these two days have been in the fifties, probably for the last time this winter. I could wear the navy-blue wool jacket I bought for Joan’s funeral – the last funeral I shall go to except mine. But – it was pouring, with that fine through-the-atmosphere rain, that gets under your umbrella and thro’ everything. I was at Mon Plasisir at eight, and was so touched to find ‘the usual table at the bar’, with an extra chair.

K had rung earlier to say, ‘I just want to warn you, I’ve bought a new suit.’ ‘Why do I need warning? Is it a city pin-stripe?’ ‘It’s blue crushed velvet.’

Well, I’m all for that, I’ve always wanted him to wear blue, - with his eyes and hair, all those dreary colours are pointless. I asked him to get there on time, because S is always late, and I find it difficult to go on expecting the host for more than ten minutes. Not to mention the faint embarrassment of ordering drinks on an absent host, not to mention having two more drinks than you want simply to pass the time.

It was raining, it was damply pouring and swirling about and under and through. Happily it was still mild, so there was no question of the mac, as I’d thought there might be when I saw the rain. I got there all right, one fold off a spike on my umbrella. Mon Plaisir is, to me, a welcoming complicated womb-like maze. Oh dear, I’ve said that – I’ve got distracted. Anyway, he arrived at about five past eight, rather soaked, his hair quite wet, considering the walk, but it dried out later beautifully with those glints in it that youthful hair always has. The blue velvet was damp rather than crushed, but was of a good rich mid to dark blue not at all glaring and a ruffled blue shirt under it. One way and another, it was back to his New Romantic days, fifteen years ago. After all his punishing schedule, he’s thinner again, and looking his best.

Eventually, at 8.30 or so, S arrived, pink and radiant. He stopped at the table, and announced, ‘I am in terrific form.’ And he was. His brilliance in telling stories, and becoming the people in them, is quite impossible to put on paper. The fascinating part to me as an actor, is that it is always perfectly judged and never suffers from the forcing and caricature that, rather too often for my peace of mind about him, overtakes his stage and film work. A very funny addition to the Ace Ventura story. When they disrupted his holiday in Italy, with retakes and dubbing, they also said, ‘ The sneak previews are on, and we find the audience don’t like Jim being raped by a gorilla…. So you’re going to be raped by a gorilla. S mused ‘Well, I am the villain and British. That figures.’ He asked nervously how they were going to do it. ‘We’re brought the gorilla arms over.’ At that moment, a nice young Italian crew member came up, wearing the gorilla arms. ‘Buon Giorno.’

We looked at the menu. It’s still only in French, with no translation. That must be quite rare in London now, ‘Potage Essau - Hairy Soup?’ said S. I’d said it to K before S got there but neither of us said so. It turned out to be lentil, S and I had that, K, had nothing. He and I had guinea fowl – delicious – and S had what? I can’t remember. Two bots of claret, a lot of whisky after. Had to stop and drink water, but a heavenly evening – S kept up laughing, and touched and inspired for hours till 1.30. Not least telling us about Enfants. The actors are lifted by the script, the whole sweep of it, and his direction. ‘Except for the sudden appearance of a French word in the script, when their mouths go the same shape as Charles Laughton’s mouth in Hunchback of Notre Dame.’

Before S came K said ‘Are you all right for money for Christmas?’ because of course he hasn’t had time to do anything for Christmas. Not that I expect anything, with him paying the mortgage. ‘We’ll go to a Nat West and get what you want.’

While K was in the loo, S pushed a fat envelope into my hand. When I opened it back here, To my Dear Angus and £500. So I told K I was alright. Which I am.

So today, Sat. anything further that I’ve forgotten. Yes, S didn’t have the Essau Soup, he had onion soup? – anyway, a lot of cheese on top. And K had profiteroles with ice-cream inside, to my great surprise, as he never has a pudding. Even then I had to help him finish them. And I had some of S’s cheese. Economical.

As I said, K was looking very handsome again, - his hair glints and gleams – I was sad to catch S looking at him with painful yearning. It was a bit of a shock, as I thought S was more settled than that. I hope I imagined it, - after all, I was drunk, too.

It has rained drearily all day. K rang at 8:45 p.m. Forgot to say that he was having Sharron to dinner for the first time since they split up. She must have felt it when she left by the front door, instead of going up to bed with him. I had a jolly talk with K and arranged about Christmas and Boo, and then he told me to tell Sh. the gorilla story. She screamed, so at least they started the evening laughing.

Oh, ad S told me some of the cast of Enfants, apart from Rupert G. – Garance is Helen McCrory, Lemaitre - James Purefoy (who he?) Colin Farrell, James Faulkner (where have they been – stuck in Stratford, I suppose) and – Colin George.

Well, I thought he was going to be one of the great eccentrics when he was running the Oxford and Cambridge players, which he started. He was good-looking in a conventional way and rather hated that. He took himself rather seriously and had little humor. Made a brave splash as Petruchio, had the girls at the stage door, and was his own master. It’s sad to think of him filling in the corners at Stratford. He must be sixty-something by now,

Oh, and on Blue Peter, that idiot black presenter, standing over the niche in Bethlehem church where the manger is supposed to have been, said ‘One of the most famous men in the world was born here – Jesus.’

Monday December 25 1995

Oh the blessed quiet. Rang K as usual, and put on speaker ‘phone, to talk to Marjorie. Couldn’t hear. K says they’re driving tomorrow to Phil’s for the day. Hope he keeps his temper.

Tuesday December 26 1995

Little boy on TV. “How many years have you been a fan of Manchester Untied?’ ‘Six’ ‘Six years?’ Nod. ‘How old are you?’ ‘Four.’

Wednesday December 27 1995

Bitterly cold, not above freezing all day even here. Glasgow had coldest day ever, which is saying something. I listen to appeals to look out for old people living near you, and wince at the thought of the bell ringing… Arlette arrives today. I hope she’s not too cold, poor girl. And no snow for her to look at here.

In a vet progr. from Australia, a farm where there has been no real rain for four years. No comment on the Indian-type cattle, with big dewlaps and humps, more resistant to drought, but why not say so, and tell us name of the variety.

Thursday December 28 1995

Still bitterly cold. After my shit, I kept doing a little watery dribble, and in stemming that, made myself quite sore, not difficult with my dry skin. If I have proper diarrhea, and go three or four times, I draw blood, just as I sometimes do in the night scratching arms, legs or feet. For that reason, and the cold, cried off the film, which is annoying, as I wanted to see Claire Danes again. Bad tile, I can’t remember it now. It had Home and Holiday in it, definitely a preposition or two, and possibly a verb, but what order they were in, goodness knows.

Yes, the cold is exceptional, electricity was cut off for some days in Scotland, which is bleak at the best of times. No hot food etc. a state of emergency was declared by the council. Of course, a television crew and reporters could get there and back, but, it seems, the electricians couldn’t. The two residents they talked to plainly came from Essex. Nothing is sacred these days.

The telephone went dead again for a large part of the day. I did feel a bit beleaguered as I couldn’t get out either. That’s the third time this year.

No word from K. That poor girl is certainly getting a baptism of ice.

Friday December 29 1995

It’s interesting him not ringing. Most people would ring to say ‘She’s arrived and we’ll see you soon’ to give themselves pleasure. To see themselves, in an interesting situation, is the impulse. Now K has less self-dramatisation than more or less anyone I’ve ever met, except D. Perhaps that’s why I love him, too. Interesting.

Later on, and perhaps a bit drunk, I thought I’d ring Neil and Linda, and try to burst that particular boil. ‘Modern technology’ prevented me. First of all, the code had changed. When I got one right code, their number seemed to be wrong. To get the right code, I had to lean over and pull one out of a pile of heavy directories. To get their new number, I would have to ring directory enquiries in America. I couldn’t afford that, and there would be language difficulties…. So the difficulties are physical as well as technological.

Went out for the first time since Christmas Eve, into the piercing cold. Had a great list of ‘things’ I might buy with S’s money. The crowds were hell even in Hammersmith. D’s stricture, for before Bank Holidays, ‘They stock up for a siege.’ It’s really stupid and the rushing around put me off, and I just got the basics. There are one or two luxuries…

Saturday December 30 1995

Another big interview with Pat Routlege. It gives an amiable picture indeed of what to me has always been a rather tortured and unhappy woman. She insists on her happy and loved childhood to a suspicious degree and is now suggesting hopeless love-affairs etc. which I find it difficult to believe in. The reviewer was completely taken in. Dear Helen de thing not so, the words ‘formidable.’ And ‘not easily crossed’ appearing on the edges. Both D and I agreed that she was adept at wrong-footing you, making it clear that you had just said exactly the wrong thing. Of course some of it can be attributed to neurotic Northernness, as exemplified by that ominous sentence, ‘I believe in speaking my mind.’ Oh dear, what a shock Yorks and Lancs would get if we started speaking our minds.

Honours list. Sir Cameron Macintosh. HA!

The big article in the E. Standard by the Prime Minister was on London and what the government are going to do for it. Unexceptionable in intention… But included the interesting fact that London’s economy is bigger that of Portugal or Finland. When I rang Mary L. for the usual chat – all for her benefit – and looking around for something to say, said ‘I’m fascinated by London’s economy being bigger than Portugal’s, - I suppose it would be a bit rude to tell Kevin’s Arlette that.’ ‘No only rude but pointless.’

Dear John N. rang. He’d had my thank-you letter, saying I couldn’t really go to Vivette in my terrible old mac, and no o’coat. He was upset, and said ‘I shall take you out next week, and give you £250 in used fivers to buy an overcoat.’

Sunday December 31 1995

A strange-ish day, woke after a better night at nine or so. Read the Sunday papers, almost unreadable with ‘Surveys of 1995’ and ‘Forecasts for 1996.’ Dozed off at about half-past ten, and woke at ten past four. Is this the first time I’ve had to draw the curtains back again immediately?

Why am I not a Born Again Christian? Then I could participate - I think that’s the word – so much more fully in Songs of Praise on Ice. I pity satirists these days.

I had to pretend to Hazel that I’d been out when she rang the first time. I rang Mary L immediately afterwards, and was struck by the contrast between them, and me in the middle, as so often in my life. Hazel found the first part of Alan B’s Abbey distasteful, because, if she did but know it, he lets his real political feeling show a little more clearly than usual, anti- Thatcherite, anti-materialist. Mary L is anti-Telegraph etc etc and I have long affectionate talks with both of them. I don’t think I’m a trimmer. I hope to modify their sillier views. As usual, my views include theirs but not vice versa. Ah well, I lost D…

If only the Beatles had had the luck to be educated instead of famous, the sixties might have been a time of growing-up instead of teenage self-indulgence. They all wasted so much time being dim.

Rang K to wish him a Happy New Year. He rang back a bit bemused. I really think they have been just fucking. ‘Can she cook?’ ‘No.’ He thought they might come round on Thursday ‘It’s been four days…’ er… yes. They were going to a disco. Poor old thing, he’ll be finished.

Rang ‘everyone’ else, not many these days. Watched and taped ‘Strictly Ballroom.’ And was as touched as ever, like ‘Clueless’ it’s the unity of tone, that the over the topness is all brought to the same pitch.

Sat and thought about him and D. as the year turned.

Monday January 1 1996

Dozed again after the papers, and, thought I’d slept, to my surprise till seven-thirty, woke at quarter –past two. Still, it was just late enough, or early enough, to have lunch.

Rang Mary L to say that I would do her shopping tomorrow, had the usual talk. I avoid most of the mine-fields these days. As I put the ‘phone down, it rang at once – I thought it was that strange modern effect, - but it was Hazel, so I could observe the contrast even more sharply. I wonder if anyone sees me in that anti-thetical way. K perhaps?

Tuesday January 2 1996

Fairly mild, at eleven rang John N. to say I’d be out all p.m. and no answer machine, - to find him off with gastric-flu, poor soul.

At quarter past two I set off for wildest Cricklewood. At Green Park the entrance to the Jubilee line was shut, which meant a long walk round. Then a quarter of an hour walk to Mary L., and then ten minutes to the Giant supermarket. And it is giant, and I had forgotten where some things were, and some things weren’t there at all, and I went forward and backwards and forwards again, and loaded myself down with two heavy bags, and bought some chestnut and chicory and beans at a real greengrocers outside, and walked the ten minutes back to the flats, and came away with some of heavy books I’d loaned, and walked the fifteen mins, and stood in the rush-hour, with my legs stiff and aching. I have now had a bath, and greeted Justin back, and feel a bit better, and old. How I relished my gin – Justin had had a ‘Hi-Fi’ system from his brother. His mother gave him a CD of Kylie Minogue, on the advice of ‘a nice boy with an earring in the Macclesfield W.H. Smith record department. I think he was gay, darling.’ Unfortunately Justin is not the sort of gay who likes K.M!

By the way, Mary looked perfectly well, as she always does to my eye. Even when she was in whatever-that-hospital-was for some weeks.

I never watch a travel programme for more than a minute because of the horror of the flood of ignorant and stupid tourists about to descend. Richard Wilson was in Mexico. At least the poor soul is not still insisting on staying young. He took his shirt off, mind you. Men’s breasts can sag quite as decisively as women’s.

Wednesday January 3 1996

Rang K to see if it was still on, and what did she want to eat? It is important to know what she’s already had, and to give her something English. He hadn’t given her the pheasant casserole so I suggested that, with smoked salmon to start, and choc. br. whip to go on, and English cheese. I said ‘Does she like smoked salmon?’ ‘Do you like smoked salmon? There’s a nod.’ So that’s that. He’s waiting to hear about a commercial for Nationwide. That would be very good financially because building society adverts go out so boringly long and often.

R rang, after a bit of a silence, but with a long cold and ‘It was horrendous going back to work’ - well, now we see what a mistake it all was, except the house. However, he recovered himself with me by ringing at all and showing pain and affection. He is still an inhibited boy, not least because he’s so certain he isn’t. His brother’s girl-friend sounds hell, half-Italian, half-Leicester, and Leicester rules with apathy and gloom.

Hazel sent me a nice little packet of the next installment of Alec G’s 1995 diary from the Sunday Telegraph, a photograph of her already spoilt showey-offey granddaughter, Natalie, in her tutu, on a card of the death of Chatterton, telling me that she and Barbara P passed almost every day the plaque on the house in Brook St where he died. Where’s a Brook St. round Holborn? I must ask her. The Alec diaries are charming and civilised and graceful and mild, Another wonderful character part.

On ‘University Challenge’ St. Andrews and Imperial College, were asked, ‘Who wrote his first novel in 1980, after training as an Architect?’ ‘Dickens.’ ‘Who wrote a whole series of novels including Pere Gorit and Cousine Bette, and called collectively Comedie Humaine?’ Neither team could answer.

Justin told me rather late, that Janet rang, so rang her and had a lovely chat. We talked of K. and Arlette, of course, and I said how brave it was of her to come abroad for the first time, to a strange country, to a young (ish) man she’d only known for three separate weeks. As I said to Janet, ‘K might have shipped her to Buenos Aires, only he doesn’t know where that is.’ Then I remembered he has an O-level- has he actually a level? - in Geography.

Thursday January 4 1996 Friday January 5 1996

They stayed till ten past two, so I must have got something right. It was fairly hellish getting everything ready, cleaning and tidying to make the flat resemble the rooms he knows and loves, and wanted to show off to her. It is wonderful to me that he brings her to me like this. I did feel, as I was hoiking the Hoover down the stairs, still unswept after some weeks, to vacuum the hall and dining room, after ‘doing’ the drawing-room, that I couldn’t go on to give the dinner. I’d gone to Safeways at three, made the chocolate brandy whip at 4.15 worrying about keeping Justin out of the kitchen on his return for his shopping-trip. I came upstairs leaving him a note saying do his cooking, as long as I can have the oven from 5:30 to get the casserole on by six. I had an essential sit-down, and realised he wasn’t back, after an hour away, and went back and started the casserole. Cut the two hen pheasants in half, and two little partridges, quite hard fatty work, sealed all the corpses – the big white cast iron casserole doubles as frying-pan and cass. – and started the espagnale sauce. All the time I was wondering when Justin would come back, so I was a bit harried. And at that time there was still the hoovering to be done. He came in as I was about two thirds through, and – he’d got cold chicken or possibly hot.. and chips from the chippy, and took it into his room. Later, as I came down with the hoover, he said, ‘I’ll do the hovering down here’ and did, the hall, the din-room and his room. That just saved my bacon, and I went to my bath. Just in time, as K. had rang a little time before from the science Museum, to say when should they come round. I asked about the pages of Hazel’s novel. He said, ‘Yes, I put it in my bag to bring over, but I forgot my bag.’ He said she’d loved the S.M. and her English was perfectly all right, ‘You can talk just as you can to an ordinary person’….

The casserole was a bit of a trouble, - as usual, I’d brought a bit too much, - I had to leave one partridge out, as well two mushrooms and a tomato.

But my bath saved me as it so often has, making my legs just work again, and I was dressed and had had a vital g&t when the bell rang. He hadn’t got his key, of course. My first impression was warmth, and certain sophistication. Black and white tailored separates, but black and white mingled in a coarse woollen material, nothing contrasting. A face plain in features, a quite big hooked nose and slope-away chin, - black hair, of course, are there any blonde Portuguese? – but the beautiful figure and the beautiful sweet expression, and the wanting to be pleased making up a very attractive whole. Her English is perfect, with just the right amount of accent, - she never missed the meaning of a sentence, but occasionally, of course, an idiom had to be explained, or a proper noun, or a place. The ‘Why is Wigan funny?’ syndrome,- in any language. She drinks, she smokes, and she looks about twenty–seven at least.

He, of course, as always, made no attempt to justify or explain or interpret her to me, because he has more sense, and more trust in me, than to so such a silly thing. (For a moment, I looked at them sitting on the sofa together and wondered how many girls he’s brought to this sofa…) He did a good deal for the descriptive talking, because she couldn’t very well describe the prices at the Science Museum, because she has his standards to go by. She’d loved it, and K had been turned away from the Star Trek exhibit because of his sweatshirt, saying Merry Fucking Christmas. But the attendant did let him in – it was a joke… really that boy is a such a baby. After all his hard work, it’s a short of gusher of silliness. He told me the charges are now £8. And a cup of soup was £2.50. Disgraceful. And to someone of my age it is even more disgraceful that anything should be charged to go into a museum. They were only founded to be free. Poor geniuses start there. Justin came up for a drink, and just before dinner, had quite a good chat with K, because Arlette came down to wee, and stayed.

Dinner, smoked salmon, pheasant and partridge casserole, pots. And sugar-snaps peas, chve. brandy whip, fruit, stilton, yarg, cheddar, all English, I loved her appetite, she had second helpings of whatever there was second helpings of. She said to him, ‘I’ve have had some lovely meals while I’ve been here, but this is the best…’ he protested for fun, but was really pleased. He carried the coffee-tray up for me, they confessed that this was the only time they’d been out at all. ‘And then it was only by going to the Science Museum first.’ They keep touching one another, but in a perfectly relaxed way, as people with a gift for sex do, and therefore it is neither irritating nor revolting, and it can so easily be both. She is a naturally warm girl. Later on she came and sat on my armchair with her arms round my neck for about half an hour. I don’t think an English girl, even nowadays, could have made such a gesture without self-consciousness coming in somewhere. I asked about Scotland, or anywhere. It seems that anyway they mightn’t have anywhere. He hired a car, and was driving to meet her at Heathrow, when one of the tyres burst. He got out the spare and it was flat. He taxied to Heathrow, £45, and then he had his back turned and she walked past him. In the taxi, on the way back, he took her past a few sights, they got to the house and almost at once a pick-up truck arrived and the poor girl had to go with him to Regents Park to pick-up the breakdown.

He said ‘Show her your kilt.’ So I brought it all out. She popped on the bonnet, the only bit of it that would conceivably fit her. I turned round from looking at her, to find him in his underpants, and saying get me a shirt. He put it all on, stockings plaid, jabot, ruffles and all, and of course looked terrific. Our tartan is only blue and green, and so, like his blue suit, it brings out the colour of his remarkable eyes. And his hair suddenly became an echo of the Jacobites. They drank a lot and ate a lot, and smoked a lot and laughed a lot. When they left, we hugged a long time, I was pleased with her. I wonder if it’ll last. But I was most pleased with us. The evening, so full of joy and fun and sense, was a tribute to, and a result of, our love and friendship.

Today I have been as tired as I’ve ever been my life, but in a happy and solved way. I have just sat here and basked.

Saturday January 6 1996

Still tired, and happily was able to stay dressing-gowned all day, as Justin kindly did the only little bit of shopping I needed. The remains of dinner will last till Monday.

I forgot to say that K said that Hazel’s proofs weren’t bad at all, a couple of small mistakes, ‘As for the £40,000, yes, it’s possible. You see, if you put studios on a scale of one to ten, mine’s a three or, if you put it in cars, the best is a Rolls-Royce and mine is a Ford Fiesta. I can produce stuff up to standard by various short cuts and so on, but there is better equipment to iron out those short cuts and cutting corners.’ So he’s going to look up the more expensive stuff to fit it with £40,000.

A good interview with S in the Indep. about Les Enfants. I don’t know whether she wrote down her tape-recordings, certainly it sounds more like his voice than usual. The photograph is still too solemn, giving levers to ‘Luvvie’ – charges - ugh!- than most.

Rumer Godden aged 88, said of her husband ‘I have mistrusted charm ever since.’ It has obviously never occurred to her that she has little judgment. Watched a minute or two of ‘Chariots of Fire’ – odd to think I saw it with Lalla. Well, at least they can’t cast Patrick Magee as Don again, since all he exuded as an actor was undiluted uncontrolled malice, and he’s dead. What a one-dimensional affair he was, but he had a vogue...

Justin went off to Soho to meet his louche friends and came back in the tamest way off the last tube.

Sunday January 7 1996

Very mild. No heat in here at 7:30. Rang R and had an affectionate chat. Hm.

Another two points he didn’t – K, I mean - get the Nationwide advert. And he finds R an uncommitted and unsatisfactory friend. I think R. would be much upset to hear that, but then I feel a bit the same.

Monday January 8 1996

How strange one’s metabolism is! After months of lying in bed in the mornings and dozing off again, suddenly found myself out and dressed and on my way to Selfridges by ten this morning. Not wholly successful, as I found I had forgotten to put the mortgage number in my new diary, so that I couldn’t make a payment to the Alliance I’d come specially to make. I did get the new pedal bin for the kitchen. The old one, plastic with a narrow groove all round the bottom divinely designed to gather smelly bits of rubbish impossible to clean out, is thankfully worn out. The new one is enameled metal, with a perfectly plain plastic bucket inside, the pedal mechanism is all metal. I also bought a new pair of oven gloves, no luxury as I have burnt my hands most times though the holes in the old ones. One luxury I did treat myself to, was some real Caerphilly, ditto yarg, and a lovely irregular lump of farmhouse butter. On the way out, before Selfr. I mean, I bought a sandwich box at Boots in the Broadway Mall, two egg and cress sandw., ‘With a third one free’ a Wensleydale and date sandw. – 89p excellent value. On the way back, I brought a bott. of Jacobs Creek, first for ages, and relished my lunch of shrimp and brown toast and lovely butter, followed by the lovely cheese. I ate most of the half pound or so of Yarg before I could stop myself…

One trying feature. I walked down four flights of stairs at the west end of Self. to get to the basement to find alterations going on. I couldn’t get through and had to climb all the way back up, into the shop and down the escalator.

I was shocked to find how tired and stiff I was after an expedition that only a few years ago, I would have combined with a cinema and having two people to dinner in the evening. Age comes and goes.

Tuesday January 9 1996

To H’smith and made many small satisfying stocking-up purchases with S’s money. Nine pairs of socks, a big packet of labels, five videos, two boxes of BQ ear plugs, beside food shopping. I try to get some tins in, but, beside tuna, prawns, the good little shrimps and sardines, I only have soup. None of the tinned ham or the ‘meals’ in tins have as yet been worth repeating. I tried a tin of macaroni cheese, it was just about eatable, if a bit cardboard, but looked rather disgusting, like undigested sick. The other I’m trying is Spag-bog. I must have something by me for when I run out of ready money, a frequent event these days.

As mild as I’ve ever know it in Jan. Took the lining out of my old Mac, wore it open, and even then was too hot, soaked in sweat when I came back. 54º.

Wednesday January 10 1996

Dear John rang about the money. It would be at the Coli. Just ask for his secretary.

Justin bounced in and said that Darren had rung to invite him to have sexual intercourse at the sauna he works at in South London. Not with him, Darren, with a pick-up. Well, it’s nice to know.

I was going to go out but felt tired enough to prefer staying in.

Thursday January 11 1996

Had to pay Alliance and suddenly thought I could go to Ealing and got to that Safeway’s afterwards. Less walking. First rang Janet to see what the film is. It’s called Twelve Monkeys, but the dread words Terry Gillian decided me. It turned out afterwards that Brad Pitt is in it, but T.G. can drive me out of any cinema.

Re-reading in Eliza Acton, with great pleasure, and, still with Muriel Spark, loitering with Intent. Brilliant, witty, just my taste.

Friday January 12 1996

Went up in the morning to collect the money from John N, after an affectionate and thoughtful call from him. The usual doors were locked, and the little marble reception desk had been moved into the other lobby, where the entrance doors were unlocked. It turned out there’d been an attempted burglary a couple of days ago. Five youths, no guns or knives, just a great deal of abuse and they didn’t get anything. Obviously they were amateurs, as apart from anything else, there isn’t all that much money in a theatre box-office, not really worth a raid, like a bank or a building society, stupid to choose one of the lightest theatre lobbies in London. Nice little secretary called Manda – no A. The money was in a white envelope in a brown envelope with a note. Both envelopes were marked Strictly Confidential and Personal. He is a dear, £250. I had planned to go to Aquascutum and Austin Reed, and then give myself lunch at Café Pasta, and then go on with the search. But, after I’d walked from Coli to Regent St. and back, I was rather stiff, and rather tired. I found nothing and it seemed nicer and more restful to come home to lunch. My knees vary so much from day to day.

I looked in at the fish-shop and the butcher in Brewer St. a big headless fish, unnamed, had a barred pattern of yellow down it flanks. What was that? The scrumptious display of game in the butchers shows that they change decisively less for pheasant and duck than the H’smith Tesco. Well, they sell so many and therefore that’s what business was. Although I didn’t wear anything but a jacket, and sweater, it is so mild and I walked so far (sic) that my shirt was black with sweat. Odd, I had to change.

Saturday January 13 1996

Professor Sir Harold Bailey has died aged 96. He was a don at Queens, long after I came down, and I have never heard of him. Not surprising as he was professor of Sanscrit, from ‘36-‘67. He seems to have been able to speak most living and dead languages. Among many other activities, he kept a rhyming diary, an epic of over 3000 verses in a private language concocted from classical Sarmatia inscriptions. When taxed with their obscurity, ‘The diaries aren’t really so obscure. There’s hardly a line that could not have been understood by any fourth-century person.’

Decided to go to Richmond to try for the overcoat. Surely you can get a tweed overcoat so near Richmond Park….

At the station, a train has stalled and the service is suspended between Turnham Green and Richmond. So I thought just shopping at H’smith. As I arrived at … a train marked Richmond drew in. Mind you the indicator said Ealing Broadway. I went to the driver’s cab, where he was on intercom. I asked him which the train was going to. He scrambled out, and, on his way up to the ticket office said ‘I’ve just got to ‘phone up and ask.’ I felt that the 13th was exerting its influence, and decided to stay in H’smith.

Bought a detective-story by an author new to me, Ann Granger. We’ll see. Also the third vol. of Clive James’ autobiog. May week was in June.

Sunday January 14 1996

Very very mild. Hazel told me her agent says her last novel is the best she’s ever written, - not that one featuring ‘me.’ I told her today was Lalla’s 90th b’day. She told me that the novel featuring me and Lalla was to be published in February. In it Lalla dies. Well, B.Pym’s writings tended to come true…

Oh, come to think of it it’s also Christine’s fifty-first b’day. Poor creature.

Monday January 15 1996

Set out again to Richmond, and had a very successful hour. Walked down the High. St. seeing nothing possible – or slippers. At the bottom went into Dickins and Jones, and at the back of the, thank goodness, ground floor, I suddenly saw navy-blue – well? – macs, with a really impressive zipped-in lining. The lining has lined arms that have little loops to button on the inside of the cuffs. Of course the coat is itself lined and is of a man-made fibre, like cotton, coated in Teflon, so I supposed it’s non-stick as well. Had a delightful grey-haired generous-figured woman as assistant. She must have been in her late fifties, and a mistress of cozily affirmative chat. “It’s the graffiti that gets me down.’ It was £139, reduced from £175, so I had some over. Went straight to that little bookshop, a real privately run bookshop, crammed with books, and the manageress? rather argumentative and affectedly off-hand, but knowledgeable and professional all the same. What’s it called? The Open Book, that’s it. On the euphoria of the coat, and money over, went straight in and bought the Dodie Smith biog. and the K. Grahame, happily reduced to £6.99. Went back by way of the market, of course thinking of Joan Hoar, and how she was worried that ‘her’ bookshop would close, because – when? ten? seven years ago, Flatchard’s opened a branch near the market. On my way to the fish-shop, I stood amazed to see Flatchard’s, all shelves empty, and one or two people in the last stages. I couldn’t piece out who’d taken over, not a book-shop, I think. In the market, the fish-shop seemed no more. However, it is Monday and I may not recognise the shop without perhaps a temporary counter. Monday is not a fish day. Bought a replacement for the missing navy-blue sweater at M&S, and a large bag of Wild Bird Seed at the pet shop, £4.85, as much as I could carry. Looked in the delicatessen next door for some cheese, but nothing really, - a pigeon flew in, circled once, flew to the back of the shop.

Tired but not tired. The coat made me feel better. Now I can go anywhere.

Tuesday January 16 1996

Out in my new coat for a last little fling of S’s money. Bought a wild duck, £3.40 and a piece of skate £2.80 in Brewer St. at dear old butcher and fish-shop. When I came back here, I went out to do some ordinary shopping in H’smith in just a sweater and cords, as I’d been too hot before. I never remember doing such a thing in January before. Imagine telling Mary L.

Have now finished the Dodie Smith biog. A curious mixture. Part of her is witty, intelligent, well-read in a disorganised way. Part of her is like Ethel M. Dell or any compulsive best-seller, coarse and obsessive and incontinent. And then there’s her love of dogs… she reminds me of so many people – Mary L, for instance – in her lack of education. She is continually arguing muddled fait accomplis. I would say that Autumn Crocus has a crumb of real feeling in it, as has Dear Octopus. ‘I capture the castle’, which the biographer claims will endure, and which I think I read before I auditioned for it in 195?, remains with me as only a superior example of frustration, screw down the value and you get this gush. I doubt if the plays will survive – they’re so expensive for rarity revival. The only really interesting thing about her is the wit and humuor and intelligence unable to temper the egocentricity and arrested development. I never read the Dalmatians book. I am always repelled by animal worship. Isn’t it odd that they don’t understand what a terrible sinful confession of failure on every level it is to prefer animals to humans?

Only one step up is preferring babies and children to humans. Oh the duck so good.

Wednesday January 17 1996

Another tiresome theatre dream, with another terrible lavatory scene, this time a large Grecian urn, lift the lid and it’s full to the brim with shit. When I protested, there were protests from people standing all round the room. And when I protested about aesthetic matters, too… odd, because I care nothing about loos or shit. Really my subconscious is so threadbare.

In the p.m. to see new film the Brothers MacMullen, at the Tottenham Court Rd MGM. A good little film, inventive, sensitivity written, by the young man who was also the executive producer and the director, and plays one of the brothers. I hoped that he was the wry detached one. So often such a multitalented is least good as an actor. But it was the one I liked best, Edward Burns. Couldn’t be more that twenty-six or seven. A remarkable achievement as it was, an independent film, for which he must also have raised the money. I came out at about 6:30, and saw a very unusual sight for these days, not one but two queues, four deep, one for ticket- holders, one for casuals, both stretching back at least fifty yards, to the middle of the block the cinemas are in. For ‘Seven,’ which has turned into a violent, in every sense, success.

Thursday January 18 1996

Justin Came in, looking angry and desperate. The More O’Ferrall man has stopped his income- support as well as Housing Benefit. I did not bother with explanations, as he gets hold of an explanation that suits him and sticks to it. I don’t think the O’Ferrall man is being simply malicious. I think he’s too selfish except to serve his own self-interest. Housing Benefit is one thing but income support is another and doesn’t, I think, depend on where you live. At least it doesn’t for me, it may be different for young people. Mine is pension as well. So I encouraged him as far as I could, and felt an ignoble relief when he said he couldn’t wait to find something really right, and would have to get some digs quickly so as to get the income support back to live on. The wretched little thing – perhaps this will be another little blow on the mess that is his life, that will eventually force him to do something. He tells me his family can’t help him, - I think it’s ‘won’t’ by this time. I must try and say something to him to show, in some way or other, that you cannot have just the sweet pleasures of life, without paying for them, also in some way, or another. It’s ‘she had her own way until her own way ceased to please her.’ He does nothing but read film mags, eat, read a book very occasionally and very slowly, fuck and chat interminably on the ‘phone, and no doubt, when he’s with his friends, too, I fear he feels himself to be the wise one, to whom people turn, oh dear. Poor chap, he’ll pursue his self indulgent pleasures and wear them out, Trollope was so right.

In evening to the new film with Janet, Dead Man Walking. It stars Susan Sarandon, a favorite of mine, and is written and directed by her husband, Tim Robbins. It was a real life story of a nun getting a letter from a murderer on Death Row and becoming, in the end, after some painful unforeseen difficulties, his spiritual adviser, and going with him right to the end. A minefield of a story for yank sentimentality, but Tim R. wrote it very well indeed and Susan S. was subtle and moving, covering the character completely. The judgment displayed all round impressed me most, and the detail – as she went along the passage past the execution room, they were setting up a trestle table, and putting a cloth on it. Later and quite near the time of execution, in the middle of a painful scene where she managed to get him to admit to his crimes, so that he might receive, not absolution, but at least a little grace, you see out of focus a plumpish man by the table, leaning round the coffee urn to choose a sandwich, on his way to the witness the execution.

After, to la Perla, so pleasant and nice. This time, I had halibut, spinach and sauté pots. Only a hint of garlic, thank goodness – I don’t think good halibut needs anything but butter, and herb, parsley, basil… it’s no use, I cannot find garlic bringing out the taste of things, any more than sharp sauces or curry does – do. Then I had caramelised oranges, or rather sliced oranges in cold caramel with little strips of caramelised peel. So good for the end of a meal. Espresso, I do love Janet, despite her betraying, like Justin, a tendency to go on saying what they’ve just said, not picking up your angle. I don’t mean not agreeing. I mean not catching it and going forward. I think it’s lack of education, perhaps no university. Certainly Justin, Janet, Prim and Mary do, or did, it, and Hazel, S, Roy, John N, and so on, don’t. Later with the first group, I get my apercus back as original thought. As with darling K. Well, that’s good and Janet is kind and intelligent and could tell the writing was good tonight for instance.

Oh, it was such a comfort and relief to have my new coat. I could not go in my torn mac among all those rich people, - happily I’ve never had to go overcoatless on a really cold night. All the same… the night with K and S was pretty cold and wet. I’d have liked a coat.

Friday January 19 1996

A catholic headmaster, accused of the usual thing apparently told one of ‘his’ boys, that he called himself ‘The lesser-spotted phantom bottom biter.’ At least he must have a sense of humour. At bottom…

Justin was out and about at an accommodation agency, for which it had never occurred to him until I ventured to suggest it that he might have to pay. A generation brought up on Loot. While he was out, someone rang. ‘Just tell him Tony from Tottenham.’

Still mild.

Saturday January 20 1996

A dream that was, I suppose, vaguely theatre in that, to leave the island, the only way was to climb down a long ladder down a sheer cliff. My legs ached at the prospect, and I put on jewelry to do it, a thick gold bracelet with a heart on it. I think that was taking what you can from a sinking ship. Woke at six-ish, read, dozed and had another dream of which I can remember nothing, but the time is interesting. Back to sleep at sevenish, woke at quarter to eight, having dreamt again.

A Labour peer of 80 is having a child. I’ve never heard of him but he seems, one way and another, to have done a lot of Dartington Hill - do-gooder harm. Family values are his central tenet. Hm. So he’s having a child who will be deprived of a father quite shortly. Artichoke for lunch. 40p in Brewer St. market.

Later. Really, I shouldn’t have hoped that Justin would leave soon, and that the kitchen light failing, and other disadvantages etc etc. Now all the power points have failed. The TVs still work, and I have plenty of candles, and the gas hasn’t fused….

Sunday January 21 1996

More Justin memorabilia. He’s seen a place in Kilburn, which he liked enough to ring them tonight, though they said they couldn’t let him know till Thursday, because someone else is coming to see it on Wednesday. I quite see why he liked it, if only because it’s a gay co- operative and he would pay £16 a week…

I asked him for information only, what Darren’s sauna was like, was it a gay sauna, in that there were no facilities for straight sauna customers to be coped with? ‘It’s a completely gay sauna, with a window and door filled in.’ It turns out it’s in Cleaver Square! Presumably opened to deal with deviant Conservative MPs on their own doorsteps.

Dear Tim W. rang. I said ‘Thank god you’ve rung.’ Characterically he had assumed guilt for not being in touch. He is still with Kate, the girl he met in a Stoke N. pub, out of work actress. We arranged that I should see the play on Wednesday. Most interesting to see a show play that I have never seen. Not to mention that the last time it was revived D was in it. It was a warm and satisfying talk, - he is a dear dear thing.

Monday January 22 1996

Getting colder.

K rang – ‘Coming up for air, and checking in.’ Thinks he may be free on Sat. tho’ he might go and see R, because he feels he ought to see the house. ‘How did you like Arlette, then?’ ‘Didn’t my letter say enough?’ I said how much I liked her, and hoped she was sincere about finding the dinner the beat meal she’d had in England. ‘It was true, - every time I started cooking, she distracted me, so we ate a lot of burnt food. But the dinner was great. It was great Angus.’ ‘And did she like me?’ I said, ‘She absolutely adored you, she absolutely adored you.’ I’d only asked for a joke, and was quite struck, because he very seldom talks like that. I asked when he’d be able to see her again. ‘Well, I’m going to Paris for a week in March, for Stan, so I might get her to come up there.’ ‘What better? Paris in the spring.’

Tuesday January 23 1996

I am much ashamed to say, that, last night, leaving my bedroom door a little too wide open, I set my new coat, hanging on the back of the door, alight. The lining, hanging separately, went up like a piece of paper, and one arm of the coat charred to half the size. The speed of the flames were, of course much worse because it’s artificial fiber. There is nothing to be done about it. By sheer chance, I have enough money left over from my gifts to buy another. Set out to Dickins and Jones in Regent St. in case they had a replacement. I knew there had only been one in my size at Richmond, and that ideally a size too small. Felt tired at the start by my stupidity, and expected nothing of the expedition. I was rehearsing as always, what I would say to everyone to whom I’d described it. Went down to the men’s dept. and immediately found the identical coat, one size larger, 46, and not another coat like it on the rack. Paid, and was out and home with it like a dream, instead of a nightmare. I deserve to pay for it with that last little preserve of money. I feel such a fool for making that mistake with candle flame, after twenty years of living by candles and nothing else at the cottage. In the bedrooms anyway, and oil lamps downstairs. I have decided to tell nobody. What use would it be except to pass on my foolishness?

I am lucky I didn’t burn the house down, or injure myself. Very cold and damp and raw.

Wednesday January 24 1996

Viciously cold, so I was glad yesterday at least yielded me a coat… Whole day geared to Richmond in the evening. I had decided to go through the evening, as in the past, inspired by a £54 cheque from Portrait Of A Lady – is that thirty years ago? I arrived at the dear little building at about seven-ish for seven-forty-five. I thought how I’d feel if I’d been in my old torn mac, because certainly there was nobody in sight throughout the entire evening, who was anything but prosperous. Now of course that’s to be expected with a play like Simpleton on the coldest night of the year. One way and another, they must be real theatre-goers. It was a good mixed audience. People my age, from great age of theatergoing, but a good proportion of young, and young men as well as girls. It is the first production in anything like a mainstream London theatre since the one D was in at The Arts in 1945. (I could see when I mentioned this, eyes widened as they viewed an impossible survivor from a bygone age.) It was one of the best- played and cast productions I’ve seen at the Orange Tree – quite a good standard. Tim was excellent, as ever. Like Sam Walters with a play, he lets a part be itself. The young parson very well and intelligently played by an actor new to me, Christopher Staines. Oxford and B.O.V. school. Wonderful to see a Shaw again, and to see the actors with brains as ever, coming out on top. The play is brilliant. I hope I can have a hundredth part of his wit and compassion and nobility of vision, not to mention the dazzling technique and style, at 78.

Dear Tim drove me home, after a good chat in pub and car. His new girl friend is ‘quite assertive, and the other day accused me of being insipid. I wonder what you’d think of her.’ I said I thought admitting you’d been called insipid, wasn’t insipid.’

Thursday January 25 1996

Did I say that Mary L. said to me with that affirmative excited inflection, ‘I’ve got my chest.’ I think that was Monday, but it is amusing to me that is goes on. What is bronchitis? I am always impatient with chesty people – there always seems to be, in my experience, a self-absorbed element, Prim, Donald, etc. but I may be quite wrong, and have been unlucky in my chesty victims. I asked her whether she was well enough to hear about the play, and of course she talked animatedly for half an hour. I fear some of her talk was, as usual, such narrowly based misjudgments. ‘Shaw is so out of fashion, between Coward and Rattigan, and what we and Rattigan used to call the kitchen–sink, he …’ I love ‘What we used to call the K.S.’ as if she was so far ahead of the fashion. Poor little thing.

Viciously cold. – 13º

Friday January 26 1996

D’s B’day, 82.

Still bitterly cold.

There is another new ‘cure’ for complete infertility in men. They can isolate partly formed sperm and inject them straight into the egg. So, once again, more and more unsatisfactory couples are reproducing their uninteresting selves, when nature intended them to be sterile.

More tiresome tax letters. In the p.m. to the new Alan Dovar film ‘The Flower of my Secret.’ – is that the title? I know it was rather silly one – the Secret of my Flower, perhaps… Goodish acting as always excellent, but less exuberant and farcical than his usual, and therefore in danger of seeming a little flat in comparison. A long time since I had wanted to see anything at the Renoir. There always seems to be a piercing wind round those huge pillars.

Later. At 9.30 dear Paul R rang, concerned about me, as he hadn’t got me once or twice. Probably in bed with my ear-plugs in. But it was very kind, and I didn’t realise he felt such concern about me… Perhaps I am seeming older suddenly to them all. What a lot of sons I seem to have.

Saturday January 27 1996

Janet heard a boy on the tube say to his girl-friend, ‘He used a sledgehammer to crack a whip.’

Justin had a ‘phone-call last night from the man who showed him round the flat he didn’t get. They arranged to meet at somewhere called The Yard – I think – and Justin spent the night in the flat he might have lived in.

Not quite so cold, but still with everything turned on and never above freezing all day. More football matches cancelled than any time since 1963.

Sunday January 28 1996

Still very cold, worry about the National Grid being overloaded.

Forgot to say that I had a letter of startling incompetence from the B’mouth solicitors inspired by Donald! Asking about the circumstances when we sell the house. For a start, they enquired whether Miss B. was still alive and living at 27, Ravine Rd. One might have thought that Donald could have answered that question, when making his enquiry. Even worse, they enclosed with the most casual apology, a letter to me from Lalla, that has been in ‘their files’ since 1987. I must take serious steps to get rid of them.

Hazel rang as usual today, and, when I told her about the letter, she said that Tom and Kim could be consulted unofficially – both having given up soliciting – even more so, as Tom is an expert in trusts and might suggest a solicitor. She also reminded me that, as she hopes to have inherited B. Pym’s power of making things happen – what she wrote came true – tells me her new detective story, telling of Lalla’s murder will be published on February 22nd.

Later. Suddenly extension of little electric shocks on the top of the fridge. Shocks from the cold tap, and from the water filling the electric kettle, and later, from trying to wash up. Made me feel really hopeless. So that I could do nothing.

Monday January 29 1996

Rang K, told him the facts. He replied characteristically, ‘Pull the plug of the fridge out, see if the shocks still go on, the tap and so on, and then go to Hammersmith and choose a new fridge. So I went to Hammersmith, and chose a Zanussi, from a young black male assistant who could hardly attend. He ambled away to write down the details and had to call over the serried white ranks to get me to shout the serial number. Called a Larder Fridge. Why? Paid £54 into Halifax, got pension and paid £20 tax for the month as usual.

Tuesday January 30 1996

Went in the p.m. to new film, Leaving Las Vegas, after a long morning in bed. I did all the chores and shopping, but not the Alliance, as I just couldn’t face another step. Collapsed into the cinema, as so often. Two good performances from Nicolas Cage, very inventive and touching, and an actress new to me, Elizabeth Shue. She is not specially pretty, more beautiful. She has a real face, and a real body, sturdy and untampered with. I expect something of her. The film, by an English director, Mike Figgis. Writing and directing was clever and well done enough. Only spoiled by far far too much welling sugary singing-strings music, completely unsuited to the film. The composer? Mike Figgis. Alas, nobody to say no. What a good thing K wasn’t with me.

Back here, K rang, in full command. He’d rung the Co-op, and found the assistant completely unhelpful. He told me that a larder fridge just a name for the sort I want, but has no freezing compartment, which I had humiliatingly never noticed. I assumed it would be there, and didn’t see it wasn’t. He’s rung Curry’s in Holloway Road, and they’d said the similar model I would want with a freezer was such and such, and was only £169. How odd that, with a freezer is cheaper… So I’m off to Curry’s in the morning.

Later. R rang at last, and said he had tried… rubbish. I’m almost never out in the evening. I brought him up to date on all our news, and films, and Arlette and so on. He had nothing to say, one sentence about the work being uninteresting, and applying for the part of principal of an art gallery. But otherwise nothing.

Wednesday January 31 1996

Not quite so cold. I had to stay in bed again until midday, because, after I woke at 8.30, I dozed off again until 12.30. Rang Mary L... ‘How are you?’ ‘There’s a man up on the roof, I’m feeling sick and I have a really splitting headache. How are things with you?’ I tried to think of something to entertain her, and was in the middle of it, when she suddenly said, ‘I’m going to be sick now.’ And rang off.

Last night Justin went off to look at a room above a shop in Bond St. in Ealing. It looked out on a lot of lorries. It was painfully obsessively neat and clean, a little accountant, and when he asked J. whether he was tidy and would clear up after himself every night, Justin left. I feel as if he’ll never go. I went to Ealing today to make the payment at the Alliance. I think Ealing would be far too far out for a sybarite like Justin. He’s going to see somewhere in Harlesden, which isn’t a promising district. At least the road Minet Avenue, is right by the tube station. Later Tony from Tottenham rang again…’What did he say?’ ‘Come. So I’m going.’

And then no doubt they’ll both come.

Rang K, and said could he take us out to dinner. He could.

Thursday February 1 1996 Friday February 2 1996

Oh, it was such a relief to spend the day doing nothing except go to the launderette to pick up the washing. A quarter of an hour walk, and the back with two heavy bags – I cannot now do that and assemble and cook a meal and clean the house even more sketchily. I knew that the evening would be tiring, and it was, in a lovely way, but still hard on the legs. You see, he spent about three-quarters of an hour going through the fuse boxes, and finally redoing the plug for the electric kettle and mixer, which of course entailed me running up and down stairs, pressing switches and finding things and holding candles. I was amused, when we set off for the Fulham Palace Rd. that he asked how far it was and he was cold. Well, he hadn’t an overcoat – too warmish layers over a t-shirt, and those autumn brown suede trousers. I have to say that the Café Rouge, one of a chain, looks even more phoney inside than out, which is saying a good deal. There are so many French phrases in gold on the window, but not so inside. We were shown into the room at the back, got up regardless in imitation Trust House Forte period and offered a table for two about two feet in front of a roaring coal fire. I said I’d be too hot, The German manager said it could be turned down, pointed to a small gas tap at the side. We thought the plats du jour would be safest, - they might at least be marginally fresher – the soup of the day was tomato and basil soup, and the entrée shark. I said he’d like the shark, but, although it was only half past eight there was only one portion of shark left. There was a little discussion between K and the German, which I didn’t quite hear, because of my hearing, his accent, and the restaurant musak. But I think we were charged for the one portion, which was cut in two, and there may have been a concession about the wine, but I’m not sure of that. Some sliced baguette arrived, and the wine, both quite acceptable, and a little later, the soup, a rather dark red, but full bowl of soup, not quite hot enough, not having quite decided whether it was thin or thick, and with quite a few basil leaves in it, which, I think, had been dropped in and withered with the heat. I don’t think there was all that much basil in the cooking of the soup, and the fresh basil which I think it must have been, would have been better shredded freshly on the surface. Then we waited and waited, or at least we would have felt we did had it not been us and the talk not been flowing, and the confidence not been present that we could go back home and have something else. When it eventually came, it was a portion about the size of a lamb chop each, in both cases allowing for bone, not very well cooked and piled deep in Paxo stuffing. Rather inspired as a uniquely unsuitable garnish for shark. The vegetables, carrots, beans, pots – l gave them all but one to K, - were eatable. We had to move to the noisy front of the shop opposite Charing X hospital for K to smoke over the coffee. So, altogether, the Café Rouge chain is out.

We talked of Arlette, I asked him about her faint lack of enthusiasm about his house. He said She doesn’t comment on that sort of thing, and she didn’t say anything about my house either. He says she’s moved away from home, and is living in a room, with four other girls. ‘A room?’ ‘Yes.’ Well perhaps that suggests why she doesn’t comment on décor or rooms and space. They haven’t spoken much, but I think he’s getting quite fond, so we’ll see. But the most interesting part of the evening was a time over the main course, when he was questioning his own musical and professional integrity. He challenged me to assert my belief in him, and I was able to look him in the eye, and tell him the truth.

Back here, all was golden. Going down for water – no ice of course, I met Justin, who’d come back from Harlesden and taken the room. That gave added joy, if that were possible, to the evening. After a long exhausting meeting, he’d come and tackled my fuses, up and down on a stool, and brought me the money for the fridge, shown me his troubles over dinner, which he’d bought, so now the lights were on. Justin was going – he makes everything go right.

I was hungover today, unusually for me, tho’ not badly, but what does that matter, when he gave me a kiss as he left and said ‘Thank you for being you.’

Saturday February 3 1996

Another painfully uninventive dream. Dreamt D slept with K’s father, in front of me, and he wasn’t even K’s real father, Ernie. And I’ve no idea who he was, except that he must be K’s father. No wonder I’d never make a novelist.

Painful pictures of the destruction of villages and towns as the warring idiots retire. ‘If we can’t have it, nobody will.’ Poor stupid little people, they impoverish themselves as much as their enemies.

Rang Mary L. to find that, after the splitting headache she, a lifelong famous insomniac, had slept fifteen hours. When she got up, her right hand was weak. ‘I keep dropping things.’ She claims that it’s because she slept on her arm, and it’s a sort of cramp. It may be a stroke, she’s had an irregular heartbeat, but I find her an unlikely subject for bursting veins, with her minimal food and sallowness. I have recorded, I may have done, that Mary wants us, D and I, I mean, to put a little panel in the stage when she pops off, saying ‘Mary Llewellyn, asleep at last.’ We’ll see.

Talk of UFOs. The split on such things is not between spirit and rationality, but between intelligence and stupidity.

In a similar vein, all one can say about sport is that it’s marginally better than war, for which, of course, it is a substitute.

I’ve always found John Morse quite without interest as an actor. He seems rather an empty person, and he can certainly face being married to a very silly woman.

Felt much warmer today, tho’ the thermometer says just the same.

Sunday February 4 1996

The papers hadn’t arrived by ten o’clock, so I rang the newsagent, and a very pleasant voice said the delivery boy has sprained his ankle, and he’d organised someone else and he was sorry. By quarter to twelve nothing had appeared, so I rang again, and he said I must have been missed and he’d bring them round himself – ‘I don’t know any of the roads round here’ – another twenty minutes went by, and I was just beginning to think of vain promises, when a smart little white car drove up, and a young man, as pleasant-looking as his voice, and unusually for such a young man these days, in dark trousers, and a collar and tie, rattled the letterbox. ‘I didn’t see the bell. We’d run out of your papers, so I had to go and buy some.’ Now that’s service. Perhaps the never very satisfactory shop has found a proper manager at last.

I’m afraid neither paper can have brought much comfort to S. The Independent included ‘Totally misconceived’, and ‘Inordinately dull’, among the comments. Even Michael Coveney, who had, according to Hazel, been ‘kind’ on Kaleidoscope, had more space to be less kind. It’s an hour longer than a film. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to sit for that long, - I wouldn’t be able to walk by that time.

Justin said he would come and pick up some more things, and would ring first. He was lunching with a friend at Shepherd’s Bush. He didn’t ring and arrived at about four, much later than I expected, of course they don’t think that I have to sit and listen… there’s still quite a lot of stuff down there, bother it.

Rang John N about the B’mouth letter. He quite agrees we should change solicitors.

Rang Sharron about Tuesday. She put me off this time, to wed. Good, as I have to do the tax. Ugh.

Monday February 5 1996

I was prepared for a whole day spent listening for the bell, but Curry’s rang at eight to say that the ‘fridge’, would be delivered ‘between 8.30 and 11.30’ and it was delivered at ten o’clock, by two fair babies in uniforms. I had told them to come to the area door. (Of course you can’t say that nowadays, no one knows what you mean. Sad, as it’s a distinctive word for a distinctive thing.) I was amused that the bell I was straining my ears for, failed to ring. It is an old- fashioned clockwork bell – you wind up the bell on my side of door, and I’d wound it a bit too tight. So there was the thing, in its huge card-board box, hugged by four shaped pieces of that odd substance, polystyrene. (How odd it would have looked at the Britain Can Make It Exhib. in 1946, - complete science fiction.) They told me that it mustn’t be moved or plugged in for six hours, so that meant four o’clock. I had to shop and then rest, but finally unwrapped it, took off all the bits of sellotape, plugged it in and filled it, and rang K to put his mind at rest, and thank him.