More snow. What's more, the whole house is full of daffodils and my nasal cavity aches and squelches 'neath the strain of it all. Spring is no joy for me. Yellow is such a loud, dazzling colour.
At 12 I left the YP and sought refuge in the library. Poor P.G. Wodehouse and Alexandre Dumas were returned to the shelves virtually unread. I was violently assaulted by the library assistant because I owed 45p in fines. Crikey! Who does she thinks pays for the rotten books in the first place? Harold Robbins, believe it or not, doesn't grow on trees.
I met Jacq at 1pm and we went to the murky, disinfectant-smelling Central. I disabled the juke box when I shovelled 5p pieces into it and it's obviously only programmed to take 10s. But the obliging landlord fiddled around beneath the lid and I ended up getting 6 plays for 10p! Coo! Jacq is fagged out. She was in Thorner yesterday typing and today she's doing the same in 'Leeds 10'. She couldn't be more specific, but I think it's behind the Corn Exchange somewhere.
I told Jacq that 1978 is the year that Michael Rhodes finds fame and fortune in a new job, but I'm not thoroughly convincing. Jacq's known me long enough now to realise what a slow, sluggish worm I am. I took my leave of her at 2 and went to the bank in Guiseley for £50 which I immediately converted into postal orders and posted to Barclaycard.
At home by 3:45 I heard Denis Healey on the telly presenting his 13th Budget to Parliament. This non-event was recorded for the first time (no pictures). After all the rhetoric I am probably going to receive £1 a week more in my wage packet. Retired at 11.