Buy Helen and Graham a ridiculous pepper mill in Schofield's. Don't suppose they'll ever use the damned thing, but at least it's something.
March down the lane at 8.30pm with the pepper mill suitably wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper. Contemplate my life.
Received another letter from Carole today begging me to go back out with her under any conditions. She says if she only sees me once a month she'll be happy. She included in the photographs we had taken at Blackpool at Easter. How can she expect me to go back to her? A fool she is, and a fool she'll always be if she continues with this silly craze.
Meet Helen at 9 o'clock and we walk across to the Malt Shovel for a quick drink. (A quick four or five drinks actually.) We talk about our lives and listening to Helen's sordid history over the past three years one realises how fantastic she must feel being settled at last. She tells me that everyone should have experience of living alone, away from home and parents, before marriage is contemplated. She says home life is cushy and people have no idea how to cope on their own until they do this. I disagree on this. Look at the happy marriages that have worked between people of no previous 'domesticated' experience? Walk her home at 11 o'clock after wishing her all the luck in the world. I take my leave and walk home. A mild, tranquil night.
A Traumatic evening. At about 7 o'clock Lynn cut her finger on a corned beef tin and collapsed in the kitchen while Sue and I looked on in horror. Lynn isn't the squeamish type at all, and I am startled to see a normal, level headed girl flaking out at the sight of a splash of blood. She was soon conscious and pulled round. The poor thing shed a few tears, but David was clowning around in his usual fashion in order to revive her. When she was fully recovered she and Sue entertained David and Peter to a meal whilst I languished in the bath 'to keep out of the way'. See a film on BBC1 - 'Three Into One Won't Go', or perhaps 'Two into One Won't Go' or was it three? Starring Rod Steiger and one of the Geeson tarts. I have seen it before and cannot say that I am impressed by it. Better than 'Coronation Street' anyway.
Bed after eleven.
(Go on, I bet you're all asking bed after eleven what? Well it isn't what you think. It wasn't eleven women, or men for that matter. Neither did I devour eleven oranges or take eleven peeps at my life-sized colour photograph of a naked Angela Rippon - in fact it was after the hour of eleven o'clock. Goodnight to one and all.)
Hear the alarm clock for the first time in months and lay awake until I hear Lynn plodding around the house at 7.30. She complains about me having a party as though I'm a small child. What's happened to the adventurous, boisterous sister of mine? If a lad can't have a bit of a party occasionally he might as well go live in a Russian labour camp or something. All work and no play isn't something I adhere to at all. Is poor Lynn forgetting what it's like to indulge in a bit of good, old, dirty fun?
Work: we laugh at Saturday night and Sunday mornings escapades. Evidently, when I was at Carol's I was chasing one of the cats all over the building in awe at the sight of such an amazing creature. On being reminded that I am severely allergic our feline friends I am reported to have exclaimed: "Oh, is she a cat?" What on earth did I imagine I was so attentively pursuing? This question, unfortunately, remains unanswered.
Sarah tells me that Peter B thinks he knows me from somewhere. I tell her his face is very familiar. Where have we crossed paths before? This is another mysterious, unanswerable question.
Home at 5.15 after calling in at a shop in Guiseley for a loaf. Chicken and chips for tea with Lynn & Susan. Just the three of us. Sometimes I feel that our family is dwindling away. Things are bad enough without John, and Mum and Dad away make something of a large gap. Lynn tells me that she met CB this morning, who told her every detail of Saturdays events. I cringe at the very thought of CB's colourful descriptions of Mrs Monkman yelling abuse from her bedroom window and other tales of a blood-curdling nature. A sharp, rebuking letter is called for. I don't believe in hiding things from Lynn or purposely deceiving her, but the complete gory details are quite unnecessary. Dear me.
Rogation Sunday. Drive home from Marilyn and Carol's flat at about 8.30. My eyes pour with water and itch. Eileen, Michael and Helen are the only survivors, or so it seems. Christine & Roger are in Mum & Dad's bed, and Denise and Peter are in Lynn & Sue's room.
We make breakfast - Eileen and me that is - and one by one they drift downstairs. My cat fever soon passes and breakfast is followed by a wrestling match between Christine & Roger. She was so drunk last night. It's my first real conversation with Roger, who isn't half as bad as he likes to make others believe.
Helen goes off and Keith makes an exit with Denise in the direction of the moors. They get back an hour or so later and make breakfast for themselves.
By 12.30 Eileen and Michael have gone, and at 1pm I stagger into bed. I am woken ten minutes later by Carole on the phone. She chats about last night. She didn't attempt to do herself in. All she did was cut her finger on a Martini bottle which she accidentally dropped on the drive. She says she knows I hate her, which just isn't true, and goes on to say she will always love me. I don't say anything of importance andgo back to bed. Can't sleep at all and get up for good at 2pm. Watch a Shirley Temple film with Keith who comes at 2.30. We drive over to see Denise and the three of us go to Harrogate's Valley Gardens in the spitfire. It's something of a squeeze but we have a laugh. The fresh air did a lot to revive me. Keith and Denise are hand in hand all afternoon _________________. Back to her place for 6.30 and home for 7 o'clock. Bid farewell to Keith until next weekend. Chris and Pete call in at 8.15 just as Lynn and Sue return home. The three of us go to Linton and then to Grassington. End up in the Fish Dish in Ilkley at 11.15. A good evening out which I undertook with my fly open until a gent let me know I was being indecent in the Devonshire.