The Orchard

We slept in til gone 11 today. I think we're both still exhausted after Friday night, and the manic week that preceded it.

Saturday was a bit of a blur. We went to see Philip and sat with Boy George for a few hours looking at photos of the parade and trying to convince Philip to be more careful about the places he visits when he's on his own in the future. 

Philip was genuinely touched and thrilled that so many people had been out on the streets supporting him. The new evidence that we uncovered hasn't triggered any new memories for him, however, so we have to hope that the police will do their bit and start searching through CCTV footage. I sent an email to the gay liaison officer at the Met explaining that some of us were prepared to club together and purchase the footage, and he said he was ashamed that members of the public were even contemplating doing something that was plainly a job for the police. He has been brilliant, but I've been appalled at quite how useless the rest of the police have been when it comes to this case. There seem to be two officers working on the case who don't even know each other, so none of the information is being shared! It shouldn't be my job to get officers talking to one another...

We've been in Cambridge today, consuming cream teas with my parents in the Orchard at Grantchester. The place was absolutely bedecked in blossom; pink and white clouds in every direction. But at £21 for 4 cream teas, we paid through the nose for the privilege of sitting in such a splendid setting... And the queues went out into the car park. Whoever owns that place is sitting on a proper cash cow, and should probably think about replacing some of the broken deck chairs! 

350 years ago, Pepys went into the City to look at the preparations for the coronation, which included 4 100 foot high wooden arches painted with different historical scenes, which must have been almost ridiculously impressive. 

Later in the day, Pepys met his new friend, Mr Allen from Chatham (the one with the fit daughter!) He gave Pepys the dots to one of the songs they'd so enjoyed singing on Pepys recent visit to his home. The song, we're told, had the most astonishingly scatological title "Of Shitten comes Shite the beginning of love." Crumbs! Who can say what that was about?