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Monday July 21, 1975

Susan's 16th birthday. She gets a stack of presents and I almost died laughing at the card from Dave L. It had a bloke on a motor bike on the front with a large letter eight in the top corner! What will he come up with next? It seems like a lifetime since my 16th, and I really don't want to dwell on it.

Work was quite busy really. I was saddened to see that the only son and heir of Lord Ingleby died at the weekend. That's another title doomed to extinction.

Go to Whitelocks with Sarah and Dave B.

Home at 6 o'clock and leap into the bath. Everyone is running around all panic stricken. All ready by 7.30, and Peter comes round with a beautiful ring for Susan. That must have set the poor boy back a few bob.

Lynn, Dave, Sue, Peter, Martyn Cole, Alison, Christine D, 'George', John, Mum, Dad and me of course, all go off for that long awaited feast. Not too impressed by the place (the Coniston, Idle), and I sit flanked by John on my left and Christine D on my right. A noisy time I had too! Christine gets worse. A young bloke plays records while we eat, and afterwards we all dance. Dave takes a few photographs and we down alcoholic refreshment until 11.30. Back home for coffee, chocolates and a few more photographs. Upstairs to bed at 1am feeling whacked.


Sunday July 20, 1975

Nice lunch. Sit in the front garden with Lynn, Dave, John and 'George' and have some revolting salmon sandwiches for tea. God only knows just what they put in those little tins. I'm 99 per cent sure it isn't fish anyway.

Finish reading 'Bertie', a novel about Albert Edward, Prince of Wales by Tyler Whittle. The book was a good deal better than David Butler's.

Listen to the radio as usual, then have Carole on the phone. She's ringing from 'George's' and she wants me to go round and see her, but I say 'no' and stick to my guns throughout. She says: 'Dave will be seeing Lynn and John will be seeing Maria. So why can't I see you?' I fail to see the connection, and leave her moping calling me a 'rotten sod' &c.

Sit with Mum through a Burt Lancaster film and then see an Italian one with sub-titles. Come to bed at about 12.30 feeling miserable again. Where is that happy, smiling lad that was Michael Rhodes? Sad, isn't it?