After lunch the sun was still shining brightly and I decided to take a stroll. With hands thrust deeply in my pockets I marched down the lane at a speed not unlike James Hunt in a Grand Prix. Pass the Hare and by 4pm I'm in Burley-in-Wharfedale. By 5 I was crawling through the doors of WH Smith in Ilkley to a warm greeting from the sultry, bespectacled shop assistant whom I fear fancies me. She is a 6th former. Mr Brotherwood entertains me to tea of sausage and mash. he finds it hard to believe I've walked the whole of the eight or nine miles from Guiseley. I passed out in a chair whilst attempting to focus on a Robert Mitchum epic.
|with Christine: ruby studded turnip?|
Tony gives me his flat key and then disappears to Il Travatore with Martyn. CB and I go back to the flat and sit drinking Southern Comfort and Scotch and listening to a Billy Paul LP. She says it's disgusting how she comes running back to me every time one of her relationships is floundering. What are pals for? We laugh and chat. She says she wants nothing but a turnip for her birthday which I'll do my utmost to obtain. I suppose if I were the Shah of Persia I'd give her a solid gold one (turnip) studded with rubies, &c. But I'm not the Shah of Persia. The lads are ringing the doorbell at 10.30 and our tete-a-tete comes to an end. Martyn goes home and the three of us squabble. I fail in everything I say because they're both Pisces and I'm a just a cynical Aries who argues for the sake of arguing.
|Mr Billy Paul|