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Tuesday April 1, 1975

April Fool's Day, but didn't feel like doing anything foolish at all. In fact, I felt positively hideous all day. The Easter festivities must have taken too much out of me because I am incredibly tired throughout the whole miserable day. I had a headache too. OK, I'm feeling sorry for myself, but I don't do it often.

Home at 5.30 in a ravenous mood. Devour a massive lump of fish pie, and then have a fabulous complement paid to me by the most attractive lady residing in Guiseley at the moment, Miss Sandra Lawson that is. When I rang Dave, she answered the phone, and said: 'I immediately recognised you by your deep, sexy voice.' My heart thumped and thudded with such violence that I thought the end had come - most pleasant. Not to mention what a boost it gave my rapidly declining ego.

See episode one of 'Edward VII', a new ITV series. Excellent it was, with a good actress (Annette Crosbie) playing Queen Victoria.


Monday March 31, 1975

Holiday in England, Ireland & Wales. Wake at a civilised hour and potter around over the breakfast table for several minutes before leaping back upstairs to prepare for this afternoon's jaunt to the cinema. Mama is in no amicable mood and makes herself heard throughout the British Empire that was - possibly with the exception of Australia - which isn't quite in her voice range.

At 1.15 Dave, Sandra and Gary collect me and we go to Yeadon to see 'What's Up Doc?' with Barbara Streisand and Ryan O'Neal. Bloody brilliant film. Nearly choked at one point. Believe it or not, I could quite fancy Sandra, who is very attractive with an exceptional personality. Yes, my heart could quite easily become embroiled with hers. Sense of humour is the main thing. Gary is such a laugh too - just like Dave was at that age.

Lynn and Dave make a sudden appearance in 'What's Up Doc?' and I accompanied them home at the end to save Dave L the journey. Poor Mr Baker threw up everywhere behind the cinema and he looked deathly on his arrival home. Lynn sent him off to bed where he kipped soundly for a few hours. Mum and Dad didn't come home until after 10 and I sat in front of the tv all night. Bed at about 1am, after a boring Peter Cushing film which was supposed to be horrific, but not.


Sunday March 30, 1975

Easter Day. I'm sure Easter Sunday wasn't as early as this last year. I always thought it fell somewhere after my birthday, but it goes to show that even I can make the occasional mistake.

Do nothing all day other than eat chocolates and watch tv. The house was uncluttered with human bodies for the first time in years. Lynn, Dave, Sue and Peter went to the Lake District for the day. John was out on the booze. So, Easter Day lunch was a miserable event with just the three of us, i.e Mum, Dad and myself. Food very nice though.

At 8.15 Dave L comes for me in the car and I escape the horrors of Richard Harris and Vanessa Redgrave in 'Camelot', a revolting film on the BBC. King Arthur and all that. Meet MM and Marita and head for Leeds. The Three Bells, a nasty little pub in Headingley near Bryan's Fish and Chip Shop, is the first place to be patronised by us before moving on to the Skyrack, riddled with festering students and such like. At about 10 we all flee like big kids to the Woodhouse Moor Fair where, to our horror, we discover the bloody thing closing down for the night. After one go on the dodge 'ems the lights go out and the four of us console ourselves with chicken and chips in Headingley. Back to MM's for coffee until 1am. Sit telling tales of horror and fright. Home in the early hours in the Lawson-mobile. I can soon forsee a Matthews/Fountain engagement. Yes, Siree.


Saturday March 29, 1975

A drunken day to end all drunken days. John, Chris and I chauffeured by Mr Ratcliffe go to the Black Bull in Otley where I consume 5 pints of Carlsberg Special Brew in the space of 2 hours and proceed to look horribly ill in the back of the Ratlciffe __. Very nearly spewed up, but my genius for self-control prevented me from doing so. They bomb off in the direction of Harrogate with me spread-eagled in the rear of the automobile and on arrival in the township they search the area for a gentleman's bog. I am thrust therein, but nothing happens. No vomit. No ill effects at all. They marvel at my quick recovery. I see 'What's Up Doc?' advertised over a cinema, but they refuse to accompany me in. After a heated argument lasting half an hour I concede defeat and go home with them.

Back out at 8 with a hangover. See Christine and Gary, and then Dave L arrives with a college mate, Rich. Peter M, Chris and John make up the party, and we go to the Hare, the Westbourne, Bowling Green, Black Bull and back to the Hare again. Pubs are open until 11.30 and we have a brilliant night. I entertain myself with a Rag mag and Dave nearly crashed the car laughing at the wheel. John bumped into Peter Nason and a pal in the Hare and brings them home for a coffee with all the others.


Friday March 28, 1975

Good Friday. No work - just pure, unadulterated bone-idleness. At 12.30 on a beautifully sunny, but cold afternoon Dave, Lynn, Helen and I gather in the Hare & Hounds, Menston, Yorkshire, for a little drink before departing, in Mr Baker's car, to Woodhouse Moor Fair for the afternoon. Prior to embarking on the afternoon of childish entertainment, the four of us satisfied our refreshment buds in the Hyde Park public house, upon which I'd rarther not pass comment at this moment in time and feel that the comments I would surely be called upon to make are unfit to languish on the page for this holy day.

Spend all afternoon in the fairground and return with fish and chips to Helen's at about 4.30. Home after 5 where Mummmy makes us yet another tea. Mum and Dad walked from our house to Ilkley this morning in just two hours and then came back on the bus.

Down to the Hare & Hounds where Miss Christine Mary Dacre-Braithwaite joins us unaccompanied. Pass a pleasant few hours and plan to go to Wikis, but alas and alack, Gary comes in at about 10.0 o'clock. Blast and Damn him! However, still set on the idea of going to Wikis, John, Gillian and I depart thereunto. Kicked out at 12.30 - Sunday licensing on Good Fridays - bah - and back to Gillian's to see a film. I tried to have sex with her without much success.


Thursday March 27, 1975

Maundy Thursday. Yet another bloody busy day. Chaos and Hell Fire all rolled into one. Curious about something on the Court page of the Daily Telegraph. The Queen, Queen Mother and Princess Anne yesterday attended a memorial service for Her Majesty's cousin, Rev the Hon Andrew Elphinstone. No where have I seen anything to the effect that he has actually died. So, being highly curious I rang the Daily Telegraph to be informed that he had passed away on or about March 21. Obviously such information is of little interest to sane people, but it means a lot to me.

Sarah was in a good mood for a change and leapt to my aid when I had written a letter to Christine only to discover I had no postage stamps. She suggested I route around in the waste paper basket to salvage a respectable looking unfranked stamp to glue onto my epistle. And to think her Papa is the head postmaster at York.

In my letter to Christine I woffled on for ages about nothing. Well, when I say nothing I mean woffling on about Gary's surname - Walters. Being absolutely insane I connect Gary with Lucy Walters, the mistress of King Charles II, by making out he was her grandson.

Home at 5.15, my usual hour of late, and sit in front of the tv making little attempt to prepare for my meeting with Helen at the Hare. Both John and Papa refused to take me to the pub, so I go by bus, arriving at about 8.45. Sit with Helen, and Naomi (who John thought wasn't going out) brought us home at kicking out time.

I departed for bed after being quizzed as to what I'd been doing out with Naomi.


Wednesday March 26, 1975

Another day of toil and labour. Cut the YP for a change. So much better than the nasty little EP, which sinks even lower than the lowest rags - the Sun and Daily Mirror.

A certain gentleman writer with the Yorkshire Post today expressed bafflement that no news cuttings were to be found on the new King of Saudi Arabia or Crown Prince. The mentality of some people amazes me! Everyone knows that the Arabian Royals come and go like flies, and that they have at least 300 children each, and the fact that they all have the same name makes it all the more diffucult to keep tabs on them. Khamel Hamed Aziz Woz Ben Fhadi is a prime example.

Amused by a piece in today's paper announcing that the 87-year-old Earl of Midleton is seeking a divorce in order to marry his mistress. I only hope I'll be still getting up to the usual tricks at that ripe old age. It must be a fantastic feeling.

Miss Braithwaite rang tonight and we arranged to meet at the Hare at 8.30. Oh, by the way, last night I booked Kiko's Disco for Friday April 5, and today I managed to get a coach with Rhodes's Coaches of Guiseley - £20 will be the cost - but everyone will contribute I hope. Helen will be chuffed. I'm almost certain she gave up the idea of ever seeing those plans finalised.

John took me to the Hare at 8. He stayed for one drink then took Naomi to Bradford. Chris, Andy, Linda, Carol, Christine B and Gary are at the Hare. Moved on to that revolting pub, The Drop. Home at about 11.


Tuesday March 25, 1975

Busy, but pleasant day at the YP. Kathleen, as usual at times of great stress and panic, lost her sanity and walked around the building cursing everything that moved and screaming on the top of her voice. I managed to calm her down with a packet of cigs and a cup of revolting coffee. My behaviour this morning was reminiscent of Chamberlain's appeasement of Hitler in 1938.

See the Crossman diaries in the Sunday Times again - the final batch. More detail about him and the Queen. In 1966 Crossman had an argument with Lord Porchester (a close friend of the Queen) on the subject of the monarchy. Crossman was highly critical of the institution. Embarrassment for Crossman came several weeks later when he was summoned to the palace on his appointment as Lord President of the Council. The Queen mischievously told him she'd been 'hearing' all about him.

Items in the news: King Feisal of Saudi Arabia was assassinated today by his loony nephew. The revered Prime Minister visited Uslter. The eldest son of the 9th Earl of Carrick plunged himself into matrimony - I know that's not really news at all, but you know what a sense of humour I have. Mr Peart, the Agriculture minister thinks that the dockers are all crackers and wants them to go back to work.

Mama drew her £50 winnings out of the bank this morning. Unaccountable wealth really makes me sick. Christina Onassis herself looks like a pauper in comparison with my venerable mother.

Just noticed that Good Friday coincides with the __________, a latter day John the Baptist. Millions throughout the western world regard her as a God. This world of ours would be a sad place without her love and guidance shining down from the foothills of Pudsey where her priestesses have worshipped her for well over 48 million years.


Monday March 24, 1975

Rarther a nervous day today. On my arrival at the YP Lynn rings me from home to say that a Mr Simpson from Greenwood's wants me to contact him about the job vacancy. I immediately do so and he asks me to go for an interview at 10.30 tomorrow morning. Eileen takes her driving test then, so I ask whether I can go today. We plan a meeting for 5pm. I receive Royal permission from Sarah to leave at 1 o'clock, and come home for lunch.

Mum says that poor Sue didn't get into Nursing College, and that Lynn is having at interview at Barclays Bank at 4.30 today.

At 3 I leap into the bath to make myself presentable for the coming onslaught. You never know, it might be Bye Bye YP before the month is out.

Meanwhile: Later the same day. No, it won't be Bye Bye to the YP at all. In fact, the Yorkshire Post is like Heaven in comparison with the Greenwood Empire. On my arrival at the dreaded place I met a Mr Simpson. He informs me that 'Mr Denis' (whom I presume is Mr Denis Greenwood) 'doesn't like long hair' and so if I should be employed therein, it would all have to go. This didn't amuse me much. I nearly died with laughter on being informed that my wage would amount to £18 at the start and would increase to the vast Onassis-like £20 on my 20th birthday. In other words, a slump of £6 would be awaiting me at the Greenwood's Empire. The prospects too are non-existant. I'll dwell on the subject no more today. I can't wait for the cheerful call of the Yorkshire Post tomorrow morning.


Sunday March 23, 1975

Palm Sunday. Wake up to a beautiful morning and a beautiful hangover. Palm Sunday too.

The beauty of the weather draws John and I out to the car. We go in the direction of Otley Chevin. Stopping at the Chevin Inn for a quick one we encounter Andy Graham's papa. He buys us a pint each before departing for his lunch. We then go down to the Station in Yeadon - a bloody awful place - where I indulge in one half pint. Back for lunch.

Mum had her hair flashed yesterday and looks like a different person now. She no longer tries to antagonise me. I wonder why?

Dave Baker makes his traditional visit for Sunday tea. Lynn admitted to me tonight that this weekend is the first time they've quarrelled about anything. Nothing serious though.

John and I go with Naomi to the Hare and none of the regulars are in. We're bored stiff and leave at 10 o'clock. He and Naomi go on to Wikis. Aaarrghh! Yes, Wikis on a Sunday! Whatever next? I see tv until 12.15. Tired out, stagger to bed.


Saturday March 22, 1975

I didn't think about kipping down until almost 3.0am. The sight of Dad going to work at 6am was most unusual. Dave and me lay in the dark talking all night. I can't have dropped off until about 6.30.

I was furious at Wikis last night. Maura, whom God Preserve, was chatting with Denny and I, when Dave Knowles, her former fiance, called her over. Naturally she went over for a chat, only to be kicked in the stomach. Poor Maura pretended not to be injured, but went straight home.

All Denny could say over and over was 'the bastard, the bastard', referring to her former associate, Adrian. Poor Dave's gear box fell off yesterday and the clutch is far from well. He bought the car in good faith from Adrian a couple of months ago. Naturally, Denny feels guilty and responsible because when Dave quizzed her about the state of the car she replied: 'Oh it's great'.

Whilst reading her paper this morning Mama saw an advert relating to a job in the designing department at Greenwoods in Guiseley. She gets me to put a letter together and it's posted forthwith. Await further details with anticipation.

A drunken occasion this evening. The gang met at the Hare & Hounds as usual, but at 10 o'clock Andy suggests a pub crawl around Addingham. I immediately agree, and we all depart. After an hours solid lager swilling session I am sick in the car park of one of the pubs, then it's back to Naomi's to see a lousy 1945 film. John was sick too.

Oh, Uncle Peter and Co. came today. Forgot about it.


Friday March 21, 1975

Lounge in bed until the glorious hour of 10.30. Shear, unadulterated luxury. Bliss indeed. However, it isn't all idleness today. It's work at 5pm - so don't think for one single minute that laziness reigns here at Pine Tops. The first day of Spring - I certainly would not have realised this on my own initiative. Mum conveyed this news to me whilst I hung longingly over my chicken soup and pork cutlets. In fact, it looks about as much like Spring as I look like the Aga Khan. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, I haven't been all that lazy this morning. I ironed two pairs of trousers and listened to endless LPs and chatted to Miss Braithwaite via the telephone. So all in all I've done a decent days work.

Mess about with P.G Wodehouse and 'The Luck of the Bodkins' after lunch and prepare in general for my visit to the YP. Luckily, it's not going to be a miserable homecoming at 12. I'm meeting Denny outside Wikis at 12.15.

Quite a busy evening. I did manage to snatch a whisky in the Wellesley with Kathleen and Peter Chapman. Nothing startling in the news, and attempt to leave at 12 o'clock. The rain is pounding outside and my taxi is 25 minutes bloody late. I end up sharing one with a female reporter. Arrived at Wikis at some unearthly hour. Denny, thank God, had the sense to go straight in. Uneventful night. Helen is with Graham Pease. John brings Denny and me home - she intends staying the night. Discover Dave on the camp bed - the poor sod came off his brother's bike on the way over - so I camped down on the sofa, and Denny gets my bed.


Thursday March 20, 1975

A good day really. Frantic in the morning but at least it all passed quickly. Pay day yet again, and it coincides quite conveniently with my Barclaycard repayments. £13 they want this time.

Home on the 4.30 bus where I bump into Martin Vere-Bujnowski, who is at Nottingham Polytechnic. Haven't seen him since Christmas, and apparently he's remained faithful to the Emmotts after all these years, and I suppose he's forgotten that other places of public refreshment exist.

'Private Eye' is funny this week with some good tales of the wedding of Lord and Lady Lichfield. The Queen is always referred to as 'Brenda' which is potty really. The Duke of Edinburgh is 'Keith'. Say no more.

Home to hear from Lynn that Mum won £50 on the Premium Bonds today. Bloody marvellous it really is, and about two years to the day since she last won £50. God only knows what she'll do with it all. Probably invest it. She keeps saying it will not affect her lifestyle in any way, and she doesn't intend buying a mink coat or Rolls-Royce. It's back to work tomorrow at her £30 a week office job - no life of luxury for her. No indeed.

The 17th birthday of Mr Peter Nason. Sue, Pete, Lynn and Dave are trotting off for a meal somewhere, and it certainly looks like a champagne all round occasion. I never did anything like this when I was his age. A sign of the times.

Mum had a letter from Ruby and Arthur today. They say they had a letter from Uncle Tony the other week who told them they don't see us anymore due to a squabble over a 'holiday'. A load of balderdash.

After the others had gone to dine Mum and Papa took John and I to the Commercial where we had a few celebratory drinks. Home at 11 for a sherry session with Pete, Sue, Lynn and Dave. Bed at about 12.30.


Wednesday March 19, 1975

Hectic day really. Kathleen and I are rushed off our feet, but we plod on regardless. After lunch, Janice, the high and mighty Mrs Beaumont, pays us a visit in the company of her daughter, a pretty little thing aged fourteen weeks. She stays for the bigger part of the afternoon. so no work got done at all really. You know how funny women are with chubby little blue-eyed nippers - all hysterics and 'Goo Goo, Gaa Gaa' &c.

Arrive home at 5.30 feeling rarther knackered. All week I've been saying 'Michael, you're not going out until Friday - so don't you dare try', &c. However, Maurice is off work, so I'm doing a 5pm-12 stint, which means I won't be going out on Friday either, unless I go straight to Wikis. So Wednesday night looks very much like a pub night to me.

I feel lately as though I want to break from routine and do something completely different and wildly interesting. Painting perhaps, or even a bit of writing, but the former seems the most likely at present. Yes, from next week on, a new Mig Rhodes will emerge in these pages. The creative Mig. The out-door type of Mig. No, I haven't gone mad. It's the Spring in the air, I think.


Tuesday March 18, 1975

Quite a day of excitement really. That treasured relic of the Parliamentary system, namely Uncle Harold, announced today that the Labour government is in favour of our nation remaining a member of the Common Market. I can't really see why he made such a fuss about it in the first place. The one good thing which the late Mr Heath did was to obtain our membership of the E.E.C. and at the time I thought it was most childish of Uncle Harold to say he'd bring us out. Anyway, the so-called referendum will decide categorically what we're going to do - but if both Conservative and Labour parties think we should stay in, I fail to grasp why we have been consulted at all. I'm intending ignoring the referendum when it comes. Futile things like this should be of no concern to the general public at all. It's a bloody disgrace really.

Snowed again today. Weird weather. Went for a jog around Leeds at lunchtime. Consumed a couple of sandwiches in Park Square and made several useless attempts to lay hands on a copy of 'Private Eye'.

The editor ran around the library in a flap this morning shouting 'Sheila Viscountess Devonport' in a hurried voice at irregular intervals. No news cuttings were to be found on the dear, noble lady, but I did lay hands on a photo, dated 1952. 'Devonport. Sheila Viscountess D-E-V-O-N-P-O-R-T. Lady S-H-E-I-L-A Devonport. She's a viscountess. A peeress. L-A-D-Y S-H-E-I-L-A-D-E-V-O-N-P-O-R-T'. OK, we get the message. We enquire exactly what's happened to the peeress to cause such a panic. He says she's been kidnapped by the Black Panther, and leaves the library laughing hideously. Clearly not a devotee of the aristocracy. We later discover that she's only been forced out of her home in the early hours of the morning, and that no harm has befallen her at all. No doubt you're overjoyed on hearing this.

The Duchess of Kent was in Leeds today on university business.

See a Cary Grant and Doris Day film on BBC2 and stagger to bed at about 11 with P.G. Wodehouse, after listening to Uncle Harold talking a load of old rubbish on the late night news. It's really terrible the way he's trying to hoodwink everyone over this referendum nonsense.


Monday March 17, 1975

St Patrick's Day. Snowed today. Bloody weather. The Yorkshire Post today carries an article of some hilarity. Namely, the gathering at Ampleforth Abbey of a merry band of gents - the Knights of the Order of St John of Jerusalem. You're thinking that nothing amusing could possibly be drawn from this article, aren't you? Well, you're very wrong indeed. Oh, indeed, yes. Because staring up from the picture around which the story is based, is the very familiar face of our old pal, Chris Monckton, a knight of the venerable order. Along with his dad, Major-General Viscount Monckton of Brenchley, and 48 million other upper class religious freaks, he is partaking of 'three days of prayer and meditation in preparation for Easter'. I'm not going to say any more on the subject. Instead I'll just titter away to myself.

In keeping with the traditional Monday evening see the tv. Then sit around in bed with 'The Luck of the Bodkins' by P.G. Wodehouse, which I obtained from the library on Thursday or Friday. Can't quite remember which day it was.


Sunday March 16, 1975

Passion Sunday. CB's Birthday. Christmas is a few months early this year. Yes, you've guessed right. It snowed this morning and it's so bloody cold all over it's almost like Arctic conditions, where Capt Scott came a cropper. What a crazy mixed up nation of ours this is.

Do sod all day, and sit in front of the television all night. Laurence Olivier in 'Khartoum'. A good film, and I refuse to be lured to the Hare & Hounds with all the others. It's a nice feeling to be able to prove that alcoholism isn't my leading defect as yet, but I do suppose the coming years will give a more clear analysis.

John comes back with Naomi at about 11 o'clock and I can hear the wedding bells quite clearly this time. I know I've said it before - Christine White, Carol Smith, and Jackie Onassis, but this time it's all quite different. The feeling in my bones is definately conveying the impression this time. We are still unaware as to what denomination the Reverend Mr Downing belongs - and I must admit, the situation is perplexing. He's not C of E, so he's either Mormon, Methodist, Primative Methodist, Baptist, Budhist, Druid or Zionist. I doubt very much whether the chap is a Cardinal - not with an 18 year-old daughter. Methodist too seems unlikely, because they are opposed to drink and little Naomi is propping up the bar of the Hare & Hounds seven nights a week.


Saturday March 15, 1975

Up at noon. Sue wants to go to Bradford in order to get a present for Peter, who is 17 on March 20, and I seem like a capable victim for her escort into Yorkshire's answer to Delhi. A bright sunny afternoon - cold though -is awaiting us in Bradford, and we visit Lynn who is selling suitcases in the British Home Stores. On to see Dear Denny, who enjoyed herself immensely in the Hare last night. Sue purchased a St Christopher locket for Peter, and we vacatedthe city at about 4.30.

To the Hare again. Gillian looks a bloody misery - so I soon get out of her company, and Helen doesn't harbour any grudges about last night, so all's well really.

Christine is in with Gary and she jokes about her birthday cards, but she soon departs when Chris arrives with Denny and Peter Mather. Chris was riddled with laryngitis when I last heard - but he's slightly improved now. John and Co. go off to Wheels and the remainder of us sod about in the Hare until 11. Ron, who was once more than good friends with Denny, and Graham Pease join us. Quite a laugh.

Chris and I come back home for a coffee but he leaves shortly after. See a Bob Hope film with Lynn, Dave, Sue and Peter. Bed at about 2.30. (It's 1.30 really but they've altered the clocks to Summer Time now.)


Friday March 14, 1975

Friday again. Unpleasantness abounds this evening. Never before did I really appreciate just how irresistible I am to our good friends, the opposite sex. Whilst stood in the darkness of Wikis I was in the ridiculous position of holding hands with Helen, kissing Gillian, and attempting to hold a conversation with Christine D. In the process of this orgy of activity I did realise that someone, somewhere along the line would fall foul of my polygamous frolics, and this fleeting whimsy proved to be more than just conjecture. Helen took the huff and dragged Christine off, and I ended up in the bar staring into the false-eye-lash laden eyes of Miss Gillian Upton, wealthy spinster of the Parish of Guiseley, in the County of York. This entertaining episode lasted until 2.10am, and I was well aware that it wasn't quite finished. John and Naomi dragged me back to Miss Upton's for coffee and I proceeded to cremate myself in front of the fire. Sleep crept upon me until 5.20am when John finally decided to take me home. I don't remember just what I said to Gillian exactly, but she seemed peeved about something. She fancies me when she's had a little too much to drink, but my taste isn't in her direction at all reallly.


Thursday March 13, 1975

Glorious pay day once again. God knows what I'd do, or where I'd be, if that little bundle of notes wasn't thrust upon me once a week in the usual manner.

Marita rings at about 7 and says she's bored and gives me the usual stories about how sickened off she is lately, &c. I immediately leap to her rescue by saying 'we really ought to go out for a few drinks' or words to that effect. She agrees. Picking me up at 8 we go down to the Fox at Menston. I vowed never to darken the doorstep of that hostelry again following an incident therein the other week involving Helen and Miss Dibb. However, Marita likes it, so who cares? She informs me, whilst slumped over her tonic water, that Our Lady of Bramhope is no longer a spoken for person. My heart leaps at the thought of darling Denise being once again in our midst and tears of joy fell into my ale at Marita's tale of cruelty and misery. Ade, for all his good points, dealt irreparable blows to dearest Denise, and for that alone he deserves all the evils that will surely come to him.


Wednesday March 12, 1975

I don't want to write anything today really other that to say how happy I am that you are fit and well, and living up to life's little tests in the manner which I am sure would make any Englishman proud. Goodbye.

I know it's cheating doing this, but it isn't March 12 at all in this paragraph, if you know what I mean. The first bit about me not bothering to write anything was March 12, but as sure as Donny Osmond is Donny Osmond this paragraph isn't March 12.