To Southport, with the intention of making the acquaintance of the town's world-renowned Doily Museum. I go first to the beach and find that the far-sighted councillors of the borough allow it to be used as a car park. The thousand different hues of the cars' paintwork}add greatly to the jollity of the scene, and it is most amusing to watch the donkeys weaving their way in and out of the traffic as they give rides to the children. Every now and then one is knocked over amidst a mighty crunching of bones, and the crowds cheer. It is reassuring to know that the traditional pleasures of a day at the seaside can still be enjoyed in this increasingly commercial age.
Later I make my way to the museum where the Curator, Miss greets me at the door ("Still in my housecoat, I'm afraid"). Over coffee and gypsy creams (she usually has something "about this time" she tells me of the doily collection and its history. I see a rare doily of the Third Dynasty and a particularly fine specimen signed by the entire 1959 North Korean women's water polo team. To celebrate the resurgence of liberalism in Eastern Europe, Miss has arranged a display of "Tea Towels of all the Nations"; very fetching they look too, as she waves me farewell from the portico at the museum's entrance.
I cannot help pondering the fate of my old friend Lord David Sutch. Only a few years ago, he was a glamorous young Foreign Secretary with the political world at his feet; today he finds himself the leader of a force that was barely able to beat the frightfully amusing "SDP Party" at the recent Bootle by-election. Surely the time has come when the man must see sense and throw in his lot with the splendid Dame Peggy Ashcroft and her Liberal Democrats?
A bright morning, so I hurry to Lord's to be in time for the start of play. People may say that Mrs Thatcher is past her best and, certainly, she must miss the presence of Wayne Daniel at the other end - did anybody else notice the startling resemblance he bore to the young Baroness Seear? - but there remain few sights in cricket more thrilling than watching her opening the bowling for Middlesex. I spend an enjoyable luncheon interval with Norman Gifford (the son, incidentally, of Zerbanoo Gifford), the noted left-arm spinner.)
To Westward Ho! for some dog shooting, one of the traditional sports of those parts. I manage a good bag: two alsatian, a doberman and three Yorkshire terrier, as well as a Danish tourist who carelessly wanders across my line of fire. At dinner I sit opposite a peculiar cove in dark glasses who spends the entire meal endeavouring to convince me that he is the King of Romania. This reminds me of the time when a little fellow called Ceausescu asked me over there for what I thought was to be a spot of "pheasant shooting"; only when I arrived in Bucharest did I realise that a poorly-tuned ear trumpet had led me to make rather an embarrassing mistake.
I meet Sir David Steel at my club. His knighthood came rather belatedly, but anyone who remembers his heroic efforts against Lillee and Thomson in 1975 will agree that it was well merited. For some strange reason he now dyes his hair, and I had not realised before how close the Northamptonshire dialect is to that of the Scottish borders. Rather unexpectedly - I have always considered Graham Roope the most profound geopolitical thinker among recent English batsmen - he begins to tell me of his "exciting plans for Europe's future"; it seems they involve changing its name, merging it with Africa and reducing its population by something more than a half. I make my excuses and go off to cut my toenails instead. Incidentally, does anybody know what has happened to that funny little Scottish chap who used to appear on television in bed with Dr David Owen?
A quiet day at home dusting my library and worming the setters. My visit to Southport has led me to ponder the benefits that tourism can bring to a town. If all we hear of global warming and the threat to the ozone layer is true (although I have to say that we managed very well without one in my day, and who is to say that we were any the less happy for it?), soon much of Eastern England will be flooded and Market Harborough will awake one morning to find that it has become a seaside resort. In preparation for this day, I urge a local councillor of my acquaintance to persuade the Council to build a pier and lay in a generous stock of peppermint rock. Perhaps the time has come when I should consider taking my Gladstone's Patent Gentleman's Bathing Suit out of its mothballs?
Nothing is more suited to our English taste than the traditional Sunday. After a pot of tea, a kipper, bacon, eggs, kedgeree, a pork chop, devilled kidneys, toast, marmalade and an hour with the newspapers (our delivery boy now drives a fork-lift truck - rather quaint, I think) I go to St Asquith's for divine service. We listen to a good sermon from the Reverend Hughes on the parable of the lion and the cockatrice, enjoy a bout of lusty hymn singing, then cavort naked about the churchyard and sacrifice a sheep to Mithras.It will be a sad day indeed when such pursuits are not followed by red-blooded Englishmen.