Sunday, July 19, 1981


False alarm last night. It was one of those classic Tony Hancock Sundays when the skies are grey and there is an air of utter staleness over everything, a mediocrity of emotion. . . . .

We all sat about bored out of our skulls and apart from a slight argument at dinnertime with Mum over something or over (“I want Britain to stay British with lords and ladies,"etc. . . .), nothing much happened.

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