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Saturday February 16, 1974

Climb out of bed just before noon. No work for me today and Kathleen said yesterday that she's spoiling me with all these weekends off.

Do nothing all day except go driving with Dad. At about 2 Sue rang from her place of work, and Dad let me drive down Park Road to pick her up. She didn't like the idea of me being at the wheel and she gave a sigh of relief when we dropped her off at Pine Tops. Dad and I coninued up Hawksworth Lane past Dick Hudson's pub and over Baildon Moor. He is a nervous wreck - not at all confident like my driving instructor.

Denise rang whilst I was in the bath. John arranged to meet her in the Queen's. Chris says he'll be there for 8 - a likely story. John and me get the 7.30 55. The Queen's is packed with acquaintances. Christine and Philip, Mick Knowles and Lynn, MM and Marita, David etc. Linda and Christine arrive on the same bus with John, Denny and me. Even Helen and Keith find time to leave the party and join us. Chris comes at 8.45 and Andy and Peter seem to be very quiet and miserable. Chris and Pete go home at 10.15. Linda, Andy and Christine White go with Keith and Helen, and John, Denny and me go with David, MM and Marita. The reconciliation has taken place at last! We go to the Elma at Shipley - which must be the worst discotheque I have ever experienced. Like a rabbit hutch, with horrible people, and flat beer. Never again. Home by 2.15am. I must say it makes a change being with David and the 'Jet-Set'. Chris and Co do get slightly monotonous at times.


Suzi Quatro.

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Friday February 15, 1974

We went to the Emmotts as usual. Andy seems strangely subdued these past few days - cannot be financial worries because only Chris finds money a permanent terror and pain. MM and Marita call in. I am the only one out of the gang to go over and speak to them. _____.See Kevin Taylor who comes in at 9.30 but doesn't speak.

I am becoming worried for poor Ivy who I have neither seen or heard from since mid-January. What can have possibly come of the poor old soul? She can't have died can she?

John and I get the 11.15 55 from the Emmotts and are home 30 minutes later. Not a very enjoyable evening and the only entertainment I had was seeing Helen. That girl is the most loveable thing I have ever seen (well, almost anyway) and Keith Brown does not seem to realise that unless he treats her with more respect he may not have her much longer. Helen and I share a common bond in our hatred of ________, who is fortunately detained in Nottingham this week. Chris needs his head examining for allowing himself to 'fall for' that horrid little Scots bitch.

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Thursday February 14, 1974

Valentine's Day. This general election is making me sick. The tv can do nothing other than show Harold Wilson attacking Robin Day. The Prime Minister is spending his time walking round the Tory strongholds, bare-headed in the rain, making amiable noises to innocent shop assistants, and patting the heads of Tory babies. And where is it all getting us I ask? Jeremy Thorpe is the only decent politician left - it's a shame he doesn't stand a snowball in Hell's chance of forming a government.

A very exciting afternoon. At 1 o'clock I made my way into the Headrow in order to purchase my sandwiches from Malcolms Confectioners & Co. The shop was more than laden with gentlefolk, who were themselves pursuing the daily task of purchasing sustainance. This gathered multitude formed an orderly queue - out onto the sunlit Headrow like a peninsula or reproving finger. My person was near the end of this line, and in my idleness my eyes gazed in mild approval at the Victorian structure, commonly called the Town Hall, whilst at the same time my stomach insisted on reminding me that the ancient, noble Leeds buildings could not restore peace to the empty cavern in the hollow of my belly. My hunger was appeased by the touch of gentle female hands on the back of my neck turning my thoughts to other forms of sustainance. Yes, it was dear Sue Crosby. Such an eccentric she is! We fled like petrified sheep to the Central pub where we encountered Peter Lazenby, who still seems enamoured of dear Sue. Consumed 2 pints and a pleasant, much needed corned beef sandwich. Sue and I nearly crawled back up Wellington Street............to......work.....


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Wednesday February 13, 1974

Queen Catherine Howard beheaded, 1542. My great-grandfather, John Wilson, was born 121 years ago on this day. And, believe it or not, that is the only thing I know about him. It seems sad to think that a man of so much importance - for if it were not for him I would not now be writing this diary - is only remembered for the fact that he was delivered into this world on March 13, 1853. God Bless Him anyway.


(Er, yes. Er, so why I have written this today on FEBRUARY 13?)

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Tuesday February 12, 1974

Travel by bus again to Leeds - arriving at the YP at 8.45. Quite an exciting afternoon really because whilst I was sat typing I heard one of Mr Linacre's assistants approaching the library with several guests. "My Lord, here we have the Library", and "this way, Sir Kenneth". Sarah whispered in my direction that the Archbishop of York was standing behind me. The cleric was in fact Dr Treacey, Bishop of Wakefield. He commented on the speedy typing of the staff at the YP. The accompanying gent was Sir Kenneth Parkinson, the Yorkshire squire and socialite. Both seemed lively characters.

The funeral of ,Lady Cecilia Howard took place at Castle Howard today and her son, Henry, was banned from driving for 18 months following drunken driving which occurred on the day of Lady Cecilia's death. Mr Howard pleaded that he was distressed. To be honest, I don't know what is becoming of the landed gentry__.

The tv is dominated once again by the Prime Minister and Mr Wilson. I haven't the remotest idea who will win the election, but one thing is certain, and that is the lack of confidence of the people in the two political leaders - both have no good personal support in the nation. Let the best man win, that's what I say.

PS - The churchman in the office was in fact Dr Coggan, Archbishop of York.

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