NOVEMBER 1, 1975: Dear Diary, Whacko! One gave all the girls around Yarralumla a pinch and a punch for the first of the month. Well, perhaps more of a pat, really. Most of them looked a little surprised. After all, it's not every girl who gets touched up by the head of state. One lassie did not look too pleased, though. Perhaps she is that Greer woman one hears about. One will ask that nice young American exchange student who delivers the gin, he seems to know what youth think.

November 2: Gough's on the phone, banging on about the constitutional crisis again. Damn right there is a crisis. His incompetent treasurer says one has already spent the whole year's housekeeping. Good lord, do these people know nothing of inflation, of what a state coach costs? And there is the expense of an escort squadron of light horse in full dress. I mean, one can't pop down to the Deakin shops without attendants, can one?

one was appalled and asked him his name so one could let him know when it was all fixed. One wrote it down, Colin Ian Anderson. Common enough name, but why is it so strangely familiar?

November 4: Could not get any sense out of Gough about the gin bill. He kept spouting loftily about supply. Not the foggiest what he was talking about but one did not like his tone. I mean, who is the head of state around here? Thought I would ring Malcolm Fraser to see if he knows what Gough was going on about. Sound chap, Malcolm, he knows who wears the top hat in this dominion.

November 5: Good lord! Malcolm tells me that he has cut off the government's money. Of course he must have a good reason, chap like that. How wise of the founding fathers to vest reserve powers in people with nice accents, after one of course.

November 6: What is one to do? The biscuit tin in the butler's pantry is nearly empty. There is the light horse feed bill to pay and that nice young C.I. Allen's account is owing. I thought of sending Gough a note asking him what I should do.

November 7: Strangest dream, Lord Hopetoun, the first GG, complaining about having to resign because that prime ministerial blighter Edmund Barton was mean with money. Well, it won't happen here, whatever happens! Surely not an omen. As a Balmain boy, one does not weep.

November 8: Explained the predicament to the nice young American. He said he had delivered a butt of malmsey to Malcolm, who was very upset that Gough would not do as he was told. I may ask Gar Barwick if I should tick either of them off.

November 9: The young American was back for the empties and said there would be no more gin until the bill is paid. One knew what to do. Desperate times and all that. One ordered the light horse to clean rifles in case any blighter wanted to make trouble and went to bed.

November 10: Drafted two letters and asked parties to come round tomorrow. Put a letter in the right pocket of one's morning coat to CIA (apparently Americans address each other by their initials) saying as times were hard his services were no longer needed. In the left one, beneath my favourite foreign medal, the Turkish Order of Chastity (First Class),I put a note to Gough saying even though the gin was gone he was still one's prime minister.

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