COMPETITION

In Competition No. 1420 you were in- vited to supply extracts from the diary either of a Sloane Ranger or a Young Fogey.

Though 'Sloane Ranger' is a compara- tively new-minted term, 'Young Fogey' is by no means a fresh jest. Indeed the word `fogey' descends from the 18th-century slang-word logram' (unkn. origin). De- spite having lived for years within what a fogey would call a brassie shot of the Square in question, and despite frequent contact with male members of the Specta- tor staff, I have no very clear picture of what representatives of these two ghastly categories are, or look, like. Thank you for wising me up. Viscount Stormont (who sent a near-miss entry) considers that 'both types, in the male of the species, are so alike that the only difference I can see is that the Fogey is invariably bad-tempered and sometimes sober. The Sloane pretends never to be in London and the Fogey never to be outside it.' On the whole the Sloane entries were funnier than the Fogey ones, but also a bit more monotonous, as I imagine is the way in real life. The single diary entry I liked the most was provided by Charles Vermont: 'Broke pearls so

Trendy days

Jaspistos

couldn't go out. Crocheted nose-bag for Daddy's gelding instead.' Noel Petty was a good runner-up in the Fogey Stakes and Stella Sloan (yes!) showed a nice turn of speed in the fillies' race. The prize money available brings each of the winners printed below £9, and the bonus bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet 1983, presented by Mr Ben Wordsworth of the 192 Wine Bar, will go to C. R. as soon as he or she divulges a name to me.

Darling Diary!! I must tell you. I've had the most gruelling day! I got up (or rather crawled off that rolly thing from Japan) awfully early before noon!! Felt grotty after last night at Melinda's party. What a bore! All the men were talking about someone called Libia. Who is she? She can't be a friend of Melinda's because she wasn't invited.

Met Rupert, James and Clarissa at Francois' new wine bar — The Etoilette or whatever it's called. When the chaps went off to play rugger with Francois' geranium pots I asked Clarissa about Libia. She didn't know either but said

something about the Colonel's daffodils and North Africa. Rupert always says I know 11°' thing about life outside SW whatsit, but thats not fair. I know lots about Appartide in No' f Africa. I think it's beastly and I shall tell Libia 'f meet her. Perhaps she'll be at Jeremy's Pail tomorrow. (C.R.) Monday. A splendid day. I finally succeeded in purchasing a carbide lamp for my bicycle. Reallyquite a tonic, after the dismal news about the Telegraph. Tuesday. Quite satisfactory. A friend who owns a wireless reports that there was not a single use of the split infinitive on the evening news programme. Wednesday. I'm afraid the mice have been at tnY moustache-wax again. I confront a quandal: The 'Little Nipper' trap is so absolutely rig h,., but is it efficacious? I can barely face the thong"' of calling in a 'rodent operative'. Thursday. An exhausting day at the museum we really cannot continue just etting yone.10 off the streets — so I spent al relaxedan eveln115 nailing some new Blakeys into my shoes all reading Saintsbury's essays. ed Friday. It's disgraceful. My carefully plan- exhibitionof Tonbridge ware is to be given onre two showcases, while they're filling a whoso room with some dreadful Deco kitsch. I was upset I left early for my weekend in Bath, really — the standards are no longer GWR.

(Nigel Bunke' ) Tues. Meet Mummy 11 a.m. PJ's fix last bits wedding list. Row over place mats. Quite fancied blk/white prints ancient ruins — looked Roman, anyway foreign — Mummy says unsuit- able SW6 and what about good old set of phessies in various poses or nice 'English' flowers to match chintz ruches in kitch. Com- promise dull vistas Bath in rain.

Lunch Wop joint nr Sine Sq. Mummy v. tight on two gls Frascati. Trot her like poodle to GTC..Slip a glance THE list — SAME pici bask. MUCH nicer china. Mummy orders three steel/ neon thermoses. Grovel to explain don't Really want same. Carry M to taxi. Very gloomoid. Late for dins Giles and his frightful female parent — lie that mine ditto had meeting local Con Assc. Filthy dins — JELLY like liquid paraffin. Presented with vile 'Family' brooch distorted horse in dirty diamonds — ask sweetly if it was First prize novice hurdles. G almost burst blood vessell on nose. Maybe cancell list a.m. (Martina Nicolls) May 5th. Spent week-end bicycling in Norfolk. Wore Grandfather's Billings & Edmonds tweed suit for Mass. St Cuthberga's is a remarkable church that seems never to have heard of the Reformation (DG!). Fr Cecil kindly invited Anthony and me to luncheon and we were delighted with his excellent mutton and charm- ing wife. Discussed many fascinating topics: chess, Monteverdi, Thatcher, cricket etc. The truly delightful thing about Norfolk is that no one minds in the least if one smokes one's pipe! Home to Alison, who tells me she has been made a Fellow of All Souls — splendid news! Spent a jolly evening practising the fox-trot to our Victor Sylvester records. Tomorrow is my 27th brithday yet I still feel remarkably young! Alison has presented me with her great-uncle's Box Brownie. I am, indeed, a lucky man.

(D. B. Jenkinson) Saturday 1st June. To Lady P's do — absolutely brill! Yummy dinner! George H-H was there such a star! and James F-G (the one who skied in his tweed jacket) — a real hoot! G and J put a peacock in the fountain and pushed a cannon onto the croquet lawn. I nearly died laughing! Scrummy breakfast before finally flaking out. Saturday 7th June. To the Hunt Ball — actually all a bit horsy for me. Super sups with the E-Cs (I remembered a pressie this time!). Sat between Henry M-W — such a bore!! and a boy called Chris Brown who wore an elasticated bow tie and was a bit odd.

Sunday 8th June. Nearly a complete disaster, rain all day — if it hadn't been for Barbour and Wellies the dogs would never have had their walk! Shot back up to London in James's new car.

(Charles Marsden-Smedley) April 23. Appalled to find that only Chillers and I had had the good manners to remember England's patron saint. Attempt to mull ale at luncheon with gas poker unsuccessful.

May 5. Appalling May Day holiday. Went into office as a protest and found Chillers ensconced in the Headmaster's chair. We drank his dry sherry and picked out grammatical solecisms in Telegraph leader.

May 8. Appalling start to the day — bicycle got a puncture. Late in office again but went with Chillers to see Father Medlicott for luncheon, which was fine. Chillers' joke about transubstan- tial meal in poor taste, I felt — also not certain ring-kissing was strictly necessary.

May 9. Party. Appalling people. Quality cloth not appreciated by yahoos in Carnaby Street reach-me-downs. Talked about Waugh to one chap for some time. He said he was too young to remember the Blitz. Went home in despair.

(John Mounsey)