The 370th anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot. Or, the day Guy Fawkes couldn't strike a light.
I can hardly believe that it is a year ago tonight since my affair with Miss Sarah Collis reached one of its highest peaks. Don't try and tell me you've forgotten? If you have I'll be ever so hurt because it one was one of the red-letter days of last year. However, it pains me to cast my mind back to the close of that fateful night when Mick Johnson had us bundled into a taxi at 2.30 in the morning to be driven home via Southport or somewhere equally disassociated with the Yorkshire area, by a sizeable lady taxi driver.
Dad gave me a lift to Carole's at 8.15. She was wearing a poppy in her cardigan which looked attractive. I haven't seen as many about his year. The British Legion must have forgotten about it (Remembrance Day).
We walkd down to the .... wait for it ....Fox and Hounds. We don't like the place. It always reminds me of St Paul's Cathedral. Outside we are choked by the pub bonfire, and the fireworks are making one hell of a racket. Amidst all the flames, smoke and sulphur we see Christine D and Helen heading towards us. We shake them off, and five minutes later we head up towards the Hare only to be confronted by CB and Shirley. Christine tells me she failed her driving test today and I offer my condolences.
Carole and I carry on to the Hare. It seems our quest for peace, quiet and seclusion can never be because no sooner are we in the Hare when John and Maria are upon us. We stay until 10.30 and the conversation drifts to the subject of Carole's hair. Vidal Sassoon is having the honour to style it a week on Saturday, and because she's who she is, he is only going to charge her £13!
Over at the bus stop we stand withy the two Christines until they get the 33 bus. I'm home at 11.30 and though I loathe to admit it I see it is turning foggy again - or 'Jack the Ripper' weather, as Dad quaintly calls it.
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