The Shallow end

IT IS Wimbledon time now, my LA subscription is paid, yet I am still carrying two diaries around—one for 1982 and the other for 1981. Early in every new year I transfer the vital details from the first page of the previous year's diary to the new one: who I am, where I live, my telephone number and the name of the same old dear to be contacted in case I collapse through overwork or excitement.