Tuesday June 17, 1975

Bright, but showery day. The Indian Summer I thought we may be having is only a flight of fancy after all.

Doing the obits at the YP I see that Sir Richard Colville, press secretary to the Queen from the year dot until 1968, died on Saturday. (Lady) Margaret Hay, Lord Plunket, Admiral Sir C. Bonham-Carter, and now Sir Richard. As I keep saying, the few surviving members of the Royal Household will be drawing lots to see who's next. It's becoming quite serious really.

It's been a bloody horror taking those pills. Old Ludlow is obviously trying to finish me off by choking me to death with them in order to save me from the path of utter misery and painful illnesses which lie ahead. But seriously, they're about the size of a standard dustbin lid and they're a repulsive chocolate colour. I feel quite sick just looking at them.

Received a note from Christine. Written across the back of the envelope were the words: 'prepare yourself for a serious letter', which quite worried me at first, because I thought she might have done something foolishly hideous like stick her head in the gas oven or something. The mood she's been in lately, it wouldn't surprise me at all. She even mentioned the idea of emigrating to New Zealand!

At 7.30 John mentioned the Morris Dancers being at the Hare tonight. He rounded up Sue and Peter, who wanted to see what Morris Dancers were actually like - never having had the experience before. I also quite fancied the idea. However, on our arrival at the Hare we found the door bolted and a CLOSED sign on the front door. The Tetley strike's closed down the Hare! John was shattered. The four of us went to the White Cross, wherethe beer was awful, but we had a laugh sitting on the wall outside. Sue and Pete really do get on so well.

Back at home at 8.30 to see 'Edward VII' on ITV again. No Annette Crosbie but it was good all the same. Saw the 10 o'clock news and the ever increasingly enthralling Lucan scandal. Somehow I think something fishy is goin on with the Lucan business, but what exactly I don't know. Bed at 11 o'clock.

-==-

Monday May 26, 1975

Holiday in England, N. Ireland & Wales. The last Day: Awake coughing and sneezing because of the feathers in my sleeping bag. Emerged from the tent looking like a Pantomime Duck, or something. After dangling my head in the river and taking in the air I clear up a bit, but it'll be weeks before my sinuses clear properly. This allergy of mine is a tiresome hinderance. The same thing happened when I went with CB to Sheffield. All Dave Baker's sleeping bags are full of little feathers, and I never fail to succumb to the horrors of them.

After breakfast (another fried one) we go into Grassington for one final boozing session. The town is full of Morris Dancers, and when they came in the pub we couldn't hear ourselves speak for the jingling of bells and other clattering noises associated with this hideous village pastime.

After spending an hour in the pub we made our way home, via Appletreewick and other scenic places.

On our arrival at the Devonshire Arms we find a note pinned to John's car from Mum and Dad, who'll now be in Scotland. He managed to get the car going, and we were home for 5 o'clock.

After tea we go to the Hare & Hounds (just for a change) and I spend the whole time chatting with Christine, who passed a miserable weekend quite alone. Gary was away pot-holing - creep that he is.

-==-