Wednesday October 8, 1975

Carole is ill again. Her Mum rang me at 6.30 to say she flaked out at work and was rushed home and immediately planted in bed. After hurrying through dinner I dashed down the road to Menston, where Mrs P was carrying on as if a major disaster had befallen the House of Phillips. On being ushered into Carole's room I found a sorry sight indeed. Lying there amidst her pillows looking like death itself. I thought I'd seen the last of her, and I do so hate to see people ill because my mind goes blank, and all conversation on my part dies on my lips. I just sit looking like a spaniel in mourning, and give no comfort or cheer to the invalid in question.

I spend an hour with Carole, who angers me by predicting that I'll finish with her because she is ill all the time. Nothing is further from my mind.

I nipped into the Hare & Hounds for the last half hour and chat with CD, Helen and poor Dave (of stag party fame, who gets married on Saturday). Peter M gives me a lift up home at 10.30, and we discuss the London/Windsor excursion next week. (Uncle) John should have received my letter by now, and I hope he doesn't think I'm being somewhat rude inviting myself down like I have done.

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