I am bemused that I wrote a post, however short, about what potboiling television I watched last night. I am so sorry.
Back to Norwich yet again – and blimey, twice more to come this week – to a lecture on Francis I of France. Very interesting. I trotted awkwardly on stage to introduce the speaker. I bobbed, waving, saying “Look at me, look at me. Like me! I’ll grin and talk and waffle and be funny and loveable until you think I’m wonderful.” That is, I might as well have done. I won’t stop until they smile, at any rate.
I’d been a bit alarmed. Someone had asked what time we were leaving on Thursday. “6.30 – please arrive by 6.15,” I said. “Oh,” she answered, “because I thought it was 6 o’clock but someone told me it was 7.” I reminded her to bring her passport or driving licence. “Oh, do we need that?” she asked. Then she mused that it was a long day, so if she didn’t feel like coming, could I find someone to fill her place? “No, I sent in the names a fortnight ago for the police check.” She decided to come. Someone else was anxious, because she had been told she couldn’t take a handbag. Of course you can take a bloody handbag! It’s a camera you can’t take, or a phone. I had, of course, written to everyone as well as sending them a copy of the Highgrove guidance notes, so there is no reason they should not know.
This is my excuse for rabbiting on at some length about the whole thing. Get ’em to laugh at me and they might actually listen. I said, truthfully (for Z may exaggerate but she only lies when she wants to), that I put my passport in my bag yesterday, in case I didn’t think of it again.
Afterwards, I went up the hill to Jarrolds and bought a new diary. I know one is always given various diaries, but if it’s not a layout I like, it annoys me all year. I started to fill it in while I waited for lunch and am a little cast down by how many dull things there are to write in already. I must plan some frivolity.