Saturday November 12, 1977

I woke at about 12 and could hear Mum yelling about something from her bed. Evidently she did hear Jacqui and I listening to the stereo in the early hours and is far from happy about it. I hid for quite a while beneath the sheets until some sort of plan of action could be worked out in my enfeebled mind. I decided upon the straight, honest, Richard Nixon approach and just marched, with head held high, into her bedroom and said sorry. She was perfect from then on and just said in that famous, soft, musical voice: "Michael, you take your mother for granted." I fear I do. And she's ill too. I am a swine.

Haworth: the parsonage.

After lunch Jacqui and I got a bus to Haworth (Bronte Country and all that). It's like Hell on earth. I soon see why Charlotte, Emily and Anne never reached the age of 40. Bleak is hardly the word. What's more, it snowed. We dashed round the parsonage and then into a cafe where hot tea and cream buns failed to revive us. Felt ill and cold. Jacqui giggled. She can hardly wait to tell the folks back home who have never seen a desolate moor or the rampaging spectre of Heathcliff.  We spent more time on the road than we did at Haworth, and at 5.30 we got a bus home.


Tonight we thawed out and watched TV. Saw Penelope Keith and Lord Carnarvon on the Michael Parkinson Show.

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Saturday December 4, 1976

Wake up at 10.30 to what must be one of the coldest days I've yet experienced. And you know how I rarely moan about the weather. Bloody freezing! Hangover.

Lynne is harping on about going to Leeds which doesn't instill much excitement in one at all really, and the radio announcing a further drop in the pound due to the death of Benjamin Britten only makes matters worse. Almost as if by an act of God we find her car is incapacitated. I, being the only other resident in the house can of course do nothing to assist and so we have to await the return of Papa from the Cash and Carry at 12.40. He diagnoses battery bother and I suggest we go straight to Thornton-le-Dale without a moment's hesitation. This we do harrassed by snow storms as we passed through York. The journey proved uneventful other than a slight encounter nay skirmish with revolting peasants in Malton, which was soon quelled.

Nothing astounding to report at the Mather residence. Lynne and I go to Pickering for a few drinks and return at 11. Endure one of Michael Parkinson's revolting interviews. The man is obsessed about sex. He doesn't even draw the line at human copulation either. Apes, plankton, they all come under his perverted scrutiny. Bed at 12.30 - 1am after enduring 'Pomp & Circumstance' with Peter and Sir Edward Elgar. He is awfully sarcastic about ___________________ and insists he wants to venture to 'better places than Ibiza' next year. I'm going to San Antonio whether they're interested or not. Martyn must be made to see my point of view.

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Saturday December 8, 1973

Get up at about 11. Do absolutely nothing all day, until evening that is. Chris rings early on and says he's going to the Emmotts. I ring Denise who is in the bath, and then have a bath myself. I hear from Chris that Denny purchased a moped the other day! I can just imagine dear Denny racing through the wilds of Arthington like a cat out of hell!

Meet Peter Mather, Philip Cartwright and Finlay - we all rush off to the Commercial at Esholt - Mum and Dad's local. Such a strange pub - more like the drawing room of a Victorian vicarage. Very Dickensian. Philip and Fin go off to do a disco, and we three return to the Emmotts. I have a Guinness and decide I ought to drink it more often. Mind you, anything is better than the Emmotts bitter, which is quite revolting. Peter brings me home after fish and chips from the shop opposite the Emmotts. Go to bed at about 12.30 after watching Phil Silvers on the Parkinson programme - quite funny.

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