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Sunday November 30, 1975

Advent Sunday. St Andrew's Day. Wake up feeling quite normal considering the amount of alcohol I consumed at the Minstrel's Gallery.

Carole rings me from Maria's to say they are going to church this afternoon and 'do you mind if I don't see you until teatime?' I say I'll just about survive (God knows how) and return to the lounge to discuss food with Lynn and Dave. We are all on the verge of starvation and the aroma of Mum's cooking doesn't help much.

Marlene, Frank and the children come round at 2 for lunch and because of the large numbers involved we have to have two sittings in the dining room. I am on second sitting with John, Lynn, Sue, Dave and Pete.

I spend the afternoon playing a chess-like game with Frank. Really cosy it was too,and made such a change from the usual Sunday afternoon activities. Frank was clad in pink socks, orange and green checked trousers, a white shirt with black men all over it, a lime green and blue striped tank top, and a repulsive vomit coloured tie. However, I do suppose that one goes through a phase like this when one hits 30. Funny really.

The Harwoods go at 5.30 and John and I are summoned to the Macdonald residence. Mr & Mrs Mac are keeping vigil around grandfather's hospital bed but hope is fading fast. They look at his possible passing quite objectively though. I suppose to Roman Catholics death is like going on holiday.

After an hour at the Macdonald stately pile I leave, for health reasons, with Carole in the direction of home. We watch television, and that's about it really. Nothing thrilling or outrageous. Just the days events as seen through the eyes of a raving lunatic called Michael Rhodes.

NEWS: Graham Hill, the racing driver, was killed in a plane crash last night. Now I'll just go upstairs and lay down.


Saturday November 29, 1975

To Bradford with Carole and Maria at 2pm. Maria goes off to buy presents and Carole and I go looking for a ring for me. We see one in Samuels after an hour or so. She buys it for me. £26! Bless her. I never thought she'd pay so much, and it only goes to show that I underestimate her feelings for me. The ring is gold with a tiny diamond on one corner - beautiful.

Ring Brummels and they say we can't go in as a coach party. We therefor cancel our venue and go for the Cat's Whiskers instead. They have no objection to us going. I ring Christine W in York and tell her to go to the Cat's Whiskers instead of Brummels. Phew! What a lark. But the worst is yet to come. You just wait and see.

We readied ourselves and dashed around the house in a mad panic. Sue and Lynn were wearing new creations. At 7.30 Dad drove John, Maria, Carole and me down to the Hare. People started arriving and by 8.30 we had gathered some 31 people.Chris and Gillian came, and the couple from next door, and many people too numerous to mention. At 9 o'clock I go outside and wait for the coach and my heart sinks when it gets to twenty past that fateful hour and it is still nowhere to be seen. Half the crowd follow me to the telephone in the tap room and look on in horror as I'm told that no coach whatsoever will be coming tonight. I tried to get mad with the creep on the other end of the line but was rendered speechless by the shock of it. Peter Nason called him a 'bastard' and Gillian Upton called him a few other things, but it was all in vain. 31 people all dressed up with nowhere to go. A scramble was made for the door and those who were able went home for cars. By 11 o'clock thwo thirds of the original 31 people were in the Minstrel's Gallery in Ilkley. We stayed until 2am and I cheered up somewhat after the shock of being let down by Rhodeses Coaches Ltd.

CB was pissed out of her mind.


Friday November 28, 1975

Don't want to write much. To the Cow & Calf with Peter M, CB and Carole. We all got on quite well considering how the girls hate one another.

Peter wants his head looking at for chasing after CB. She makes it obvious that she wants nothing to do with him, and Carole feels sorry for the poor lad. However, I shouldn't interfere with the 'goings on' of other peoples 'romances'.

Drink pernod and realise I must be mad because of what I'll be spending tomorrow.

Ross McWhirter, the Guinness Book of Records chap, was murdered by the IRA last night. Margaret Thatcher, a mate of his, is now shouting for the re-introduction of capital punishment. It is a sad state of affairs when a political leader is only moved to action when a personal acquaintance is done away with. What about all these innocent people dining out in London restaurants? Why should it take Ross McWhirter's death to get our MPs to leap into action?

Roy Jenkins still insists that death for terrorists is no deterrent and that the police force is the main force of attack. Fool that he is.


Thursday November 27, 1975

A wet, nasty day all round. Sarah and Carol J are in London on a day trip, and they are worried about being blown to pieces by the IRA. Before they left I advised the following: keep out of restaurants, cinemas, big famous stores like Harrods and Fortnum & Mason's, museums, art galleries, the Tower of London, Madame Tusaud's and the Planetarium; and that probably the safest thing they can do is go sit in the middle of St James's Park having heavily lagged their under garments with at least eight sand bags, and just hope for the best.

Wednesday November 26, 1975

A wet day again. To Leeds with Jim Rawnsley. He says that in ten years time we'll be in the same situation with Scotland as we are with Ireland now. I shudder with horror. The Irish Republic Army attacking from the right, the Scottish Republicans from top, and the Welsh Nationalists from below the knees. What will become of us all?

The Scots will keep all the North Sea Oil for themselves, and England's economic future will be non-existent. The Financial Times will have to close down due to lack of business, &c.

Carol J and I go down to photographic to look at the negs of yesterdays Royal Visit. We see at least three negs with us with the duchess, and order them. I'll have them enlarged and glued on my bedroom wall.


Tuesday November 25, 1975

She came today. The Duchess of Kent that is. I had a marvellous view of the spectacle and was in the reception lobby when she arrived. She dashed in through the main door and the managing director and his cronies fell upon her like a pack of wolves. She was quite nice about it though, and came through it unruffled.

Carol J and I were on the front line and when HRH started her 'walk about' we were in direct line of fire. She came straight for me and I went weak at the knees. Carol was squealing with a mixture of terror and delight. She decided not to question me, but bombarded one of the little joiners. She couldn't have stood much nearer to me if she'd tried. So slim, blond and attractive. I have quite fallen for her. What's more, Carol says we are on at least four photographs with her. Fame at last! Photographed with the only daughter of a Yorkshire baronet who just happened to marry the shy, little cousin of Elizabeth Windsor. Who'd have thought it? Oh, if my grandmother could see me now. Aaargh. It's all too bloody much.

Meanwhile, back to reality. How at the usual time for the usual tea with the usual people. Mum says she'll tell everyone at work that I've captured the heart of a duchess. Let's not over do it, Mother.

Ring Carole who's at Maria's place. At 8.30 we go for a walk in the rain round Tranmere. Arguing again. We mean no ill will by these attacks on one another, but I somehow can't help it. She brings out my devilish, argumentative nature.

Carole is a Scorpio, which probably accounts for our fiery relationship.


Monday November 24, 1975

Top people were prowling around the office this afternoon making sure that all is in readiness for tomorrow's royal visit. They've put new carpet in the lift, and all our desks have been polished for the first time since the Prince of Wales visited in 1970.

Royal visits certainly give the chiefs galloping Ooojahs. All the things they've been putting off for years are done, as if by magic, overnight.

Kathleen, who won't curtsey, has bought a brand new wardrobe especially for it and I've noticed quite a few abnormally decently dressed reporters crawling around the office.

Sunday November 23, 1975

Last after Trinity. A wet, horrible day. I walk down the lane after lunch to meet Carole off the 3 o'clock bus from Menston. She is a bit late and I walk about kicking leaves around pretending not to notice how unpunctual she is. I don't get too wet and feel refreshed by the gales and pounding rain. She does arrive in the end and we saunter up the lane like love birds.

Last night she lost her mother's priceless bracelet at the Cow & Calf and all hell was raised at 14, Oakridge Avenue, this morning.

We watched tv, and then John and Maria came over for tea. After tea, watched tv again. Nothing like a bit of variety, eh?

John obviously doesn't have my great willpower or strength of character because he and Maria made off to the Hare after part 2,000,000 of 'Upstairs, Downstarirs'. We all grit our teeth and fought our way through the news, eighteen war films and finally a Bette Davis epic.

Dave took Carole home with Peter at midnight or so, and I crawled away to bed.

Have I mentioned already that Kathleen found a 1956 Burke's Peerage in a cupboard at the office and I am now the proud owner of it?


Saturday November 22, 1975

Went to the Cow & Calf and the mob took rellish in a brawl which took place in the ladies toilets of all places. Two young ladies saw fit to tear one another into small pieces, and one of them was in a bloody state - quite literally. She had had her pierced ear-rings torn out. Ugh. I tell Carole I'm not going up there again, but know that next week I'll be back. The Cow & Calf is horribly rough, but we do have a laugh. _____________________________________.

CB will always be at the top of my list as far as friends go, and nothing she does will stop me._______________.She is vivacious and hilariously funny.


Friday November 21, 1975

Uneventful day and night. We stayed in the Hare and Hounds until closing time and then I got a bus home with Susan and Peter.

Carole was feeling a bit off it, and because we had no transport we could see no point in her coming back to our place. We cannot really go on using Dave like a taxi - he may well catch on.

I rang Rhodeses Coaches this lunchtime and booked a vehicle for Nov 29th. So it's Brummels here we come on Saturday night. I shall have to contact David about the trip. He only misses them when he finds it impossible to get home, and I know how much he'd love to go. My main worry is that we won't be able to raise the £25 necessary. However, Brummels should be able to entice some of the more discerning members of the happy breed.

Juan Carlos joined the ranksof European monarchs yesterday. Old General Franco decided to call it a day after what seems like months of hanging on. Spain will probably fall into a pit of chaos and anarchy now - like Portugal - and I can't see Juan Carlos reigning for very long. One thing's for certain, he doesn't have the worry and strain of planning a Silver Jubilee like our poor, over-worked Sovereign. The London Transport people are even considering letting loose a batch of silver painted buses in 1977 to celebrate Her Majesty's 25 years on the throne! The Queen herself wants none of it, if you ask me. I'll bet you a pound to a penny that devious little Uncle Harold is going to use it to some political advantage - that's if he's still in No 10, Downing Street in 2 years time.


Thursday November 20, 1975

Carole's 18th birthday. Go to her place with Dave and Lynn at 7.30 and meet her parents for a few drinks of pernod and home-made lager. John and Maria come soon afterwards and we all have a good laugh. Paul, her 10 year-old brother drank a glass of pernod and went upstairs to be sick. Carole looked great in her new dress. She'd been drinking since 6.30 and was well on the way when we arrived, and so Lynn took over the responsibility of playing hostess, which she does well. I refused to give Carole my present in front of all the others and so I waited until she went upstairs, and then sneaked up afterwards and adorned her neck with the item of jewelry. It's probably not as good as Liz Taylor's, but it's the thought that counts after all.

At 8.30 John, Maria, Lynn, Dave, Carole and I - plus CD - made our way to the Hare for a few pre-meal slurps. Carole had her eighth pernod or something equally ludicrous, and could hardly stand by 9 o'clock. The meal is lost in something of a dream. Carole was sick twice but insisted it was nothing to do with the chicken. I devoured a T-bone steak and the best part of a bottle of wine, and helped myself to an ashtray on the way out. A thief, that's what I am.

__________________________________.We went to her place at midnight and I stayed a couple of hours. We were quite alone and it was the most romantic time of my life. Walked home at 2.30 in the frosty air.


Wednesday November 19, 1975

Wet day. Much more mild than it's been for a couple of days, and I set off down the lane at great risk of getting a thorough soaking.

Work was quite busy and I work through lunch and 'hold the fort' whilst the girls go on a spree into town. I leave at 3.30 to get Carole a birthday card. Dash across Leeds in the cold and drizzle in order to find her a decent card. Why do birthday cards always have to be slimy and pathetic? I hate sloppy verses.

I am so glad that the Prime Minister is making a firm stand on this devolution subject. It is obvious that he wants nothing to do with it, but has been forced to drop promises here and there from the Queen's Speech in order to pacify the rabid Scottish Nationalists and insane Welsh MPs. This feeble legislation is only making things worse because the devolutionists expected and wanted a good deal more. It will be a grim day indeed when we wake up to find Scotland, Wales, Rutland and Humberside all with individual administrative bodies. I don't mind the Commonwealth going, but I draw the line when matters get closer to home.

Carole rings at 5.30 and I tell her I have bought her a card. Sue, Pete and I walk to her place at 8 o'clock and we sit with her brother, Paul, whilst she tries on her new dress. A beauty it is. Suits her down to the ground, if you'll pardon the pun, and goes well with the new hairstyle.

The four of us go over to the Hare. John and Maria join us, and Sue and Pete leave at 9.30. We have a good laugh really and book a meal in the restaurant for 9 o'clock tomorrow. It will be our first meal out together - alone. We went to Maria's birthday thing in July, but that was a drunken affair when Carole meant little or nothing to me.

We walk up to Harry Ramsden's at 10pm and sit about on a wall discussing marriage, and children's names, of all things. She says that a would-be son of hers would have to be called Michael. I love her and think she is sexy beyond everyone else. Carole gets so jealous over me and CB. I wonder at times whether I am good enough for her. A pure Angel she is, and naive and vulnerable too. ________.


Tuesday November 18, 1975

Another bright, wintry day. Almost like January or February really.

Busy day at the office. I make sure that the Duchess of Kent's cuttings and pictures are all in order for next Tuesday. She will be coming through the library and I have warned everyone that I intend bowing if the need arises. Rabid socialist Kathleen says she will never curtsey, which to me seems childish, and she amused me by saying I really ought to take down my chart showing the order of succession to the throne. 'It might dishearten her to see it', she said. I am sure that the duchess is well aware of the position held by her husband and children in relation to the Throne.

The Daily Mail makes me sick. The Daily Mail Diary especially deserves my wrath. The Prince of Wales may be a 'self-confessed Romeo' but why should that give licence to the press to open up a 'let's expose Prince Charles's sex-life campaign'. Every day without fail they tell how the prince can be found in the bar at Annabel's, the London disco, with a vodka and lime in one hand and a blond deb(utante) in the other. OK, so he does have sexual urges like the rest of us, but why plague us to death with the details? It's not even as though any of these women will get him in the end. The latest to be named is blond, nubile Claire Leveson, sister of Lady Hopetoun. I'm saying no more but I thought I'd tell you just in case he springs an engagement on us all. I wouldn't like to think the prince had popped the question without my having given you any prior warning.

Carole rings at 5.30 to say she bought the black dress we saw in Miss Selfridge a week last Saturday. It really is nice, and she intends covering her Aphrtodite-like form with it on Thursday. Sue and Pete are coming out with us tomorrow for a few celebratory drinks, and of course Lynn and Dave are joining me for a pernod party on the birthday in question.

Lynn was ________when I showed her the locket I bought Carole. She told me it looked cheap. A cruel, hard piece she can be at times. Do nothing all evening other than watch snatches of a Doris Day epic. Saw the BBC news about three times.

Yet another bomb exploded in London tonight. One can hardly go for a scampi and chips these days without returning home with shell-shock and a leg missing.


Monday November 17, 1975

Chilly blasts and ice-cold draughts howl around my knees at 8am as I set foot out of the house for another day at the office. A hectic day too. Sarah is at her grandmother's funeral, and of course Kathleen never works Mondays. Carol is on the verge of mental collapse and Eileen reverts to her bad-mannered ways as she always seems to do at times of stress.

Someone was arguing about a quiz programme on tv yesterday. Evidently, the 50 dollar question was 'give me nine womens names beginning with the letter M'. The poor contestant could only think of six, and thus lost a chance to spend a week in St Tropez, all expenses paid. It's such an easy question too:
Mary, Marian, Mary, Mildred, Mary, Margaret, Mary, Millicent, Mary, Melissa, Mary, Maude, Mary, Mirabel, Mary, Mabel, Mary, Magdalene, Mary, Muriel, Mary, Megan, Mary, Marjorie, Mary, Michelle, Mary, Myrtle, Mary, Marianne, Mary, Marie, Mary,. Maria, Mary, Margot, Mary, Mandy. Well ok, Mandy is short for Amanda, but I bet someone somewhere is actually called Mandy.

Carole rings me and informs me that Mrs P has bought a bottle of pernod for us to get through on Thursday. Lynn and Dave and John and Maria are invited round, so we'll have a good time of it before dining out.

All I can say is I am glad we are nowhere near Londinium because you wouldn't find me in a restaurant down there. The IRA isn't going to have the pleasure of putting a stop to my happy, little existence. I intend to battle on to be over 100 whether these terrorists like it or not. Goddnight.

Sunday November 16, 1975

25th after Trinity. A cold, bleak day. I normally go to Maria's when Carole is in residence therein, but because of the dog I decide to scrap this tradition once and for all.

I woke up at 9.30. My throat feeling terrible. I gargle with salt and water and then inhale salt water up my nose - a painful experience. At 10 I go for a short walk around Greenfield Avenue in the drizzle which helps my head clear slightly. Back home I glance at the Sunday papers and drink tea.

This Franco business drags on and on. Spain is now wondering whether to unplug his kidney, brain and heart machines. He could go on for years in the present state and it's not doing the Spanish government much good.

Mum and Dad went off for the afternoon at 12, and John did his usual disappearing act in the direction of Maria's. Sue and I made lunch and Carole came round at 2.30 for hers. Sue and Lynn say they like her hair, and I think she is now coming round to liking it herself. Dave brings a pile of 'Paddington Bear' books round for Carole to look at. They're written for 10 year-olds, but Carole is just getting into them.
We sit watching television all afternoon with Sue & Peter and then move onto the radio at 6pm to listen to the top 20.

Mum and Dad come back at 7pm. I thought they'd be out all evening, but they want to watch the Royal Variety Performance. Carole and I want to watch it too, and so the two of us venture to her place in order that she can tell the Dowager Mrs Phillips that she's staying at Maria's another night. I do not like her father one bit. He's almost maniacal the way he carries on. He told his only daughter that her new hair style made her 'look like an inmate of Menston Hospital' and went on to say, over swigs of tea, that she'd lost her femininity. Most cruel of him, I thought, and we are glad to get away from her place. She was upset by the things Mr Phillips had said.

We had one drink in the Hare and then came home. Dave and Lynn had bought a supply of apricot wine in and all the family (other than John & Maria of course) sat down to watch the Royal Variety Performance. A bloody awful show it was too. The only good bits were the beginning and the end when we had a view of the Queen. She looked bored to death, but very attractive in an orange evening dress. Just how she puts up with it year after year I do not know. She really should award herself the Victoria Cross for sitting through that painful pantomime year in, year out.


Saturday November 15, 1975

In keeping with tradition I do not emerge from my slimy pit until noon. Mum and Dad came in within seconds of my return to the Lands of the Living and inform me that they have just purchased two wardrobes and a dressing table! "Spend, Spend, Spend" isn't our family motto for nothing.

Carole gives me one last ring before departing to Leeds to wave bye bye to her hair and the best part of £13. The poor darling was near to collapse with fear.

I have a horrible afternoon. Everyone is arguing and rushing around as though they're on fire. I lock myself away in the lounge with the stereo and play records. One would think that I'd started the Third World War by the outcry which erupted. Putting a record on seemed such a good idea too, and if Hitler had had the same conviction when dealing with his Jewish friends as I had when spinning a few discs, he'd have been goose-stepping through Guiseley in 1940.

Carole rang at 6.30 to say the hair people refused to perm her hair and decided to cut it instead. She only spent £8.50, but was close to tears. I tell her I'm coming round to see the finished creation, and because of the rain Dad drives me to Maria's.
I like it. She looks different, but on the whole it's an improvement. She doesn't believe me, and storms about the house in a lousy mood shouting 'how can I face my friends with hair like this?' and 'Oh God, just look at it!' I tried to reassure her, but didn't do all that well really.

Whilst waiting at the bus stop to go to the Hare Dad passes in the car and gives us a lift. Mum says Carole's hair is very nice, and reassures her better than I ever could. Buy Mum and Dad a drink and stand with Christine and Stuart. Peter M and CB, Martyn and CD make a cheery foursome, and I can't help thinking that Martyn is next on Christine's list of suitors. We shall have to wait and see.

Carole and I keep arguing and then breaking down laughing, and all the others decide to go to the Cow and Calf pub. Carole and I go with Christine and Stuart and little Shirley. John follows up with Maria. We have no sooner got settled in the pub that Peter mentions going to a disco in Skipton. I say no, and Carole agrees. He goes with CB, CD, Martyn and Shirley. We all have a few more drinks and then go back to Maria's. I succumb once again to dog-disease and it grows horribly worse. By 2am I'm on the verge of collapsing. This really shatters my hopes of getting a four-legged, furry friend in the near future.


Friday November 14, 1975

Uninteresting day at the YP. Ring Carole at lunchtime and arrange to meet her at the usual hour. Believe it or not, we are leaving the pub early before closing time tonight to see a BBC2 film tribute decdicated to the Prince of Wales, who is 27 today. Carole hates the Royal Family, but wants to watch the programme because I do.

We meet at 8. She is staying with Maria while her Mum & Dad are away again. Neither of us are in a good mood, and tempers on both sides are frayed. At the Hare for 8.15. It is completely flat and dead. Andy, Linda, Stuart, Christine, Keith, Helen, Lynn, Dave, CB, CD, Helen L, Jimmy Mac, Carole and myself, but despite the good turn-out it is too quiet for comfort. Andy laughs at my hairstyle for some reason, and if I'd have had a few more drinks inside me I'd have clogged him one around the ear-hole. Carole and I are on pernod again. Lager is all very well, but it does tend to be like a minor atomic bomb in ones belly.

I am arranging a coach trip to Brummels for Nov 27. Everyone going except Andy and Linda who are going to a wedding.

The (Prince of Wales) programme starts at 10.15. Just me and Carole, Mum and Dad watching it. From start to finish it was a masterpiece. The prince's sense of humour comes through loud and clear and if Spike Milligan is still alive when the prince succeeds to the throne I can forsee the House of Lords coping with the goon-like Earl Milligan, KG. The film showed details of the prince's flying activities and his installation as Grand Master of the Order of the Bath. Carole said she'd enjoyed it, but I think she is just humouring me.

We mess about and laugh with Lynn and Dave, who come in at about 10.45, and the four of us drive round to Maria's for a little social booze. Maria drank too much martini
and my last recollection of her was when she fell onto the floor for the last time, kicking her legs in the air, and letting out hideous giggles. I had over the necessary amount, and so too did Carole. I told her I didn't think I loved her. She was upset. I don't know why I said it. I'm a mixed up fool. Insane probably, but it's not my fault.


Thursday November 13, 1975

A cold, crisp, typical autumn morn. To Leeds with Jim. I don't know what I'll do when the day dawns when I find myself Jim Rawnsleyless. The man has been like a chauffeur to me for the best part of three years, and the thought of actually driving myself to work or catching a revolting bus is too bad a thing to even be considered. They don't make good servants like him anymore, you know. They are a dying breed and the world will be a less happier place when they are no more.

Finish at 12. Christine B rings. She's working in Leeds until the end of the month and says we'll have to meet one lunchtime for a pub crawl. I let out a burst of hideous, nervous laughter when she says she and Philip are meeting this lunchtime for summit talks. It will be a year since she finished with him on Boxing Day, but if Elizabeth Taylor can tie the knot once more with Richard Burton I fail to see why they cannot. CD said something was afoot, and I now know what she meant. CB also came out with some unkind remarks about her latest attachment. From what I saw of him last night he did not seem all that formidable, and if anything he struck me as being a cheerful, decent chap. She is seeing him for the last time on Saturday, but I can't help thinking she's making a mistake.

I go into the town centre and drift about wondering what to buy for Carole's 18th birthday next week. I espy a locket in a jewellers window and immediately purchase it. John's given me the money to get her 'Atlantic Crossing' the Rod Stewart LP and I have no trouble getting that either.

Home in the bright sun at 2.15. See in the papers that poor Princess Anne is laid up at Oak Grove with influenza. Tomorrow will be her second wedding anniversary and still we wait anxiously for signs that the marriage has been consumated. It's all very well for Mark Phillips to persue his career in the army, but his first duty must be to secure the throne and give the Queen her first grandchild so to take her mind off the Australian constitutional crisis.

I have no lunch and sit doing absolutely nothing at all. (Well,if you must know I've spent nearly two and a half hours filling in this diary properly).

Carole rings at 4.15 and guesses that I've bought her a locket straight away but when I say "Ah, but what sort of locket?" She replies immediately "a silver one". Dead right, she is, and I'll have to buy something else now for a surprise.

We meet at 8.30 and go to the Hare with John. Maria is at her piano teachers place playing, and so he's quite free and unattached tonight. We buy each other pernod and oranges and have a few lagers too. By 10.30 we are a bit popped up.

Haircut day for Carole on Saturday and she's worried sick by it. I tell her not to be daft. Vidal Sassoon won't make a complete bugger of it.


Wednesday November 12, 1975

See Marita and Philip on the 35 bus again tonight. They laugh about the bus breaking down last night, and say it must be an ill omen. _________.

John and I go to the Hare for a quick one at 8.15 and then he goes up to Maria's. I go to Carole's and surprise her by dragging her up to the Chevin Inn. We sit slumped in a corner arguing about all sorts of things. This is a regular thing now. Well, when I say regular I mean at least once a week. By spending one night bickering I find that shear bliss reigns over the rest of our nights together.

We walk back to the Hare for the last hour. Everyone finds my mode of dress amusing, and make fun of my tie. I did look a bit 'yakky' if such a word exists, but the last thing I expected was mass opposition to my clothes. Anyway, I set fashion and do not follow it.

CB is in with a chap. He seems pleasant, and I think he's the best one she's picked up since Philip. Just as we were leaving CD said something to the effect that CB had told he she'd like to go out with Philip again. I am somewhat startled, but think that they were made for each other, and this messing around will get them nowhere. The five of us, that is CD, CB, her boyfriend and me wait at the bus stop. Carole is always subdued when Christine B is in the vicinity. I think it's a shame. CB is a very good friend. When they are all heading in the direction of Horsforth Carole and I have a good laugh - we are like something out of a madhouse.

Can it be love? Do I hear the clatter of wedding bells in the near future? No.