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But he’d fed himself lunch, and they were pleased. I hope he has more days like today – and that he doesn’t linger and waste away to his death.

Wednesday, February 2nd

Am going to try to keep to a routine of an hour’s work before breakfast. Managed to wake up at ten to eight today, so did 40 minutes. Worked on Shepperton business.

John Goldstone rings and, in his dangerously persuasive way, makes me agree to meet Don Rugoff, American distributor, for a chat about advertising slogans for Jabberwocky. So I find myself at the Connaught Hotel at ten to six, heavily wrapped up, blowing my nose every four minutes and reading the Evening Standard. Don doesn’t arrive until about 6.15. He seems more like a gargoyle every time I see him. With him is his glamorous assistant, Susan, who doesn’t seem entirely at ease, but then who would be, having to accompany Don all day.

Up to Don’s room, or rooms. (I like the Connaught. It’s small, intimate and Edwardian – much less dauntingly impressive than I expected.) We drink flat Perrier and Don reels out a list of slogans he’s thought of. It’s back to square one – and I feel depressed and trapped having to re-explain basic principles about avoiding the comparison with Holy Grail, etc, etc.

But Don has a technique, unsophisticated though it may be, of acquiring co-operation and, as the evening rolls on, we begin to warm to the spirit of the whole silly operation, and run up quite a list of ad-lines. I really liked Don’s ‘At last! A film for the squeamish!’

Before I leave, just after eight, he’s not only wheedled a whole new crop of ad-lines from me, but also several trailer ideas. Don cleverly flatters me – ‘Oh, wonderful, that’s wonderful’ – thanks me profusely and effusively and shuffles me out into the passage.

Home, very hungry, by nine. It’s been like a session with a mad psychiatrist.

Thursday, February 3rd

Arrive BBC about a quarter to two. Terry Hughes and I lunch in the canteen. I am to meet Jimmy G at 2.30 to discuss the situation. I just learned yesterday from TH – that the BBC will not release him for the filming of the next three Ripping Yarns.

I had an inkling when he was made Assistant Head of LE Variety last year that this would come. TH has repeatedly said he regarded these shows as the most important and satisfying things he’s done. But he seems to have yielded to the blandishments of high office and, as Bill Cotton sounds to be about to leave Light Entertainment for higher things, I understand their cultivation of the Golden Boy.1 He will remain executive producer, however, and Jim Franklin will direct. Luckily I like Jim and find him unassuming, efficient and very down to earth. But I slightly resent the fact that I wasn’t consulted at all, until a fait accompli had been prepared.

Jimmy Gilbert tells me the BBC wiped the tapes of the first two Python series! But he is trying to find film copies from all over the world to get together the three early Pythons they’re planning to show in April/May.2

Tuesday, February 8th

Finished, at last, a six-month-old pile of fan letters. Mostly from Japan, beautifully written, generally on very delicate paper, and nearly always beginning ‘I am a schoolgirl of 14’, as if to add a frisson of danger for the reader. The language is fine too. Python is translated as ‘Gay Boys’ Dragon Show’ on Japanese TV, and one of the letters eulogises’Upper Class Twit of the Year’, but calls it, splendidly ‘The Aristocratic Deciding Foolish No. 1 Guy’. American letters, too, but coarser and more violent generally, shouting at me off the page.

In the evening Helen makes a delicious, non-meaty repast for David and Stephanie Leland, who bring Chloe with them to sleep here.

David is in the process of leaving his agent. As he says, you ‘fire’ solicitors, and you ‘change’ accountants and you ‘leave’ wives and agents. That’s what makes it difficult.

He wants to do a season of three or four new plays in repertory at the Crucible next autumn. He wants to remove the ‘new play’ from its neat little slot amongst all the trad classical