Showing posts with label rubettes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rubettes. Show all posts

20090616

Sunday June 2, 1974

Whit Sunday. Wake up at 9 o'clock and only seconds before Christine W rings me to check about church. John thinks I'm completely mad getting up at 9 to go to church on a windy, rather unsettled Sunday morning, but it makes a change I do suppose. Wearing my new suit I walk to Christine's where Mrs White stands goggle-eyed at me. What is so weird about me attending church? The two of us then called on Linda and we, the three of us, crossed the road to St John's Parish Church. We sat for about one hour and the hymns were shocking - Whit Sunday is supposed to be a joyous occasion but I'm afraid the vicar of St John's didn't do anything to make it so. We had Holy Communion and laughed at one of the parishioners who went back for a second helping of bread and shot of wine! Christine suggests we all go to St Oswald's next week, but I remind her my holiday begins on Saturday. Driving 2-4 this afternoon and I do quite well. Mother and Dad journey to Nottingham to see poor Uncle Bert, who must be feeling quite sick. "Sugar Baby Love". -==-

20090612

Sunday May 19, 1974

Rogation Sunday. Find the lounge deserted and the camp-bed tidied away. Poor Chris must have regained consciousness in the early morn and decided to go home.

At 1.0 Mum goes for her driving lesson and John and myself follow 2-4. A really hot afternoon which proved most satisfactory driving-wise. Home at 4 with sweat pouring down my back. Sit in a deck chair with Lynn and Christine Dibb, not all in the same chair though, they had a blanket on which to recline. Sue and Peter, having been for a lengthy walk, arrive back at Pine Tops and have us in hysterics - Peter's idiotic shyness_______.

See tv all evening and go to bed at 12. Back to working 9-5 tomorrow and I am not sure that the idea is is appealing to me or not.

"Sugar Baby Love" by the Rubettes or something.

-==-

Wednesday May 2, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11 Mum. To try and keep a journal, run and pub and a baby is asking the impossible. Gone is that old wit and sparkle b...