Evidently one of those nice folks next door, with a failed diploma in destabilisation from the Deborah Lipstadt School of Wreath Arranging and Dedication Writing.

July 20, 2005 (Wednesday)
Key West (Florida)

THE Institut für Zeitgeschichte archivist in Munich has replied in friendly way, advising me that their former archivist Hermann Weiss has retired, but has undertaken the indexing of the now very large Irving Collection in their archives. So they are finally getting round to indexing the stuff after nearly forty years.

10:15 am Benté calls from a phone box in Cornwall. Nothing much new except she says the radio yesterday announced the death of former British National Party leader John T-somebody, at 71. I said that sounds like John Tyndall: De mortuis nil nisi bonum, but I was glad to keep him at arm's length. I bumped into him in about 1960 in the League of Empire Loyalists' bookstore next to Big Ben in Westminster. I recalled how angry I was when he showed up at the 1986 book launch of "Churchill's War", vol. i: "Struggle for Power" on HMS Belfast (invited without my knowledge by a truly moronic third party); fortunately the press had left by then.

For the third day running, there is no mail in my mail box here. The Good Guys are at it again? Ssome years back when I collected a parcel from the Post Office's side-desk, the Latino mail clerk whispered to me in Spanish, Why are you so much trouble? They are here again about you today. I replied, "As long as it's the Good Guys, I don't mind."

I work all day on the final setting and checking of the Classic Reissue edition of The Destruction of Convoy PQ.17; now for the final Index. Aaaargh. [Right: The original Cassell & Co edition, 1967].

Out to the [restaurant on Stock Island] at 6 pm. It is getting more exhausting than it used to be. Head wind, soft tyres.

July 21, 2005 (Thursday)
Key West (Florida)

I cruise along just below the surface of consciousness until dawn, repeatedly awakening for no reason, and there are vivid, violent, strange dreams still going on when I submerge again.

9:25 am Jessica phones from Cornwall. Boiling hot and sunny there; I console her that there's a thunderstorm just passing through here. She's wearing her yellow Chicago "hoodie." She tells me that there have been more bombs, including nail bombs, in London this morning. I didn't know that. "What's a nail bomb?" she asks. I tell her. Her knee is healing. Stung by nettles, is looking for dockleaves. I say, "This is because you're not a country girl."

9:52 am on the cellphone, an unknown male with an American accent calls, i.e. he has disabled caller ID but there is an audible background of American chatter: "May I speak to David Irving please." "Speaking." "Your daughter has been killed in a London blast." I reply sarcastically: "Oh yes, right, but she's down in Cornwall at present. You're an arsehole."

But he has already hung up. Evidently one of those nice folks next door, with a failed diploma in destabilisation from the Deborah Lipstadt School of Wreath Arranging and Dedication Writing.

I call the Good Guys, and they will track it.