Gregory Peck is too handsome and noble for this sort of thing. All war movies of a certain age ought to star Lee Marvin and/or Robert Ryan. No-one else will do.
My grandmother had a budgerigar called Gregory Peck.
After the commies had been held at bay I caught a train and tram to the other side of town. We had a dinner date with Keith and Ruth.
The free paper I picked up on the train had a picture of the dead Al Zaqarwi on its front page. He looks so peaceful. He looks like the man on the Turin Shroud.
When special forces found Zaqarwi he was still alive. They put him on a stretcher and he tried to escape. Then there is a gap in the story. And now he's not alive any more.
It was the hottest day of the year. Now we have the car I rarely ride on trains. It was a treat.
Before we went to dinner we watched the first half of the Germany-Costa Rica futbol game. The German team is all white and mostly blond and...no; don't go there. Don't go there!
England play their first World Cup match today. I won't be watching.
My grandmother had a canary called Bobby Charlton.
Dinner was sort of marvellously fussy. The chef at the Fat Loaf combines flavours madly, irresponsibly, astonishingly. I think he's practising for the big time. I've never known a dinner provoke so much discussion.
There was this ice cream, for instance, that tasted like a New Age emporium.
We drove home. Al Zaqawri was no longer in the headlines. An Israeli warship has bombarded a beach in Gaza, killing most of the members of a Palestinian family. Unluckily for the killers someone on the beach had a camera.
A young girl runs about in hysterics. That's her dad who looks as if he's napping; only he's not. Another girl (her sister?) is carried off with the top of her head missing.
I slept badly. Too much fussy food. I dreamed that Fred Astaire has come to visit and I was avoiding him. He wasn't going to dance so who cares?