I am listening to a BBC Radio 3 programme about Gilbert White. The old male actors, especailly the one playing White, are good, the production is so-so and the actresses are poor. It still moves me.

The train from Ilkley to Bradford passes over the Leeds-Liverpool Canal and then a large set of allotments. The one in the corner of the rail road and the canal is always full of chickens. In Ilkley for Frazer’s 63rd birthday I read bit in his QI book, about a chicken that lived for 2 years after having his head cut off. In Bexleyheath I answered a question from 11 year old Alex about how long something could live with its head cut off.

I was in the Midland in Ilkley when England won the Ashes. I missed the actual ball. I heard the winning ball of the last winning Ashes match.It seems like yesterday, but I remember it because evil oil sufficator Blair was Prime Minister, he gave the team hours, and I then thought he gave out honours like a whore gives out pox.

I dug most of my potatoes this morning, and wrote and posted the begging letter to the agent of the Priestley estate.

The young male actor on the White play could act being a 21st Century middle class boy. I hope he is the son of the producer, anything less would mark the producer as more poor than I have already thought. I have already sent a mail of bitter complaint to the BBC website, about not being able to find out what was on; and then not being able to find out how to point that out. Oh Dear! The end of the play is really getting bad. The idiot boy sounds like he is being edited in after many attempts at getting simple lines read.

Just over half of the potatoes had holes. Better than last year. The sound ones will keep me in potatoes for a while, but even with no holed ones it would be little to boast of.
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