Wednesday November 30, 1977

St Andrew's Day. A ghastly day. Just Kathleen and I in to do all the work. By 4:30 I was dead to the world. Didn't even have time to take a lunch break. I phoned Lynn this morning to enquire about acquiring a morning coat with tails from one of her mad associates. She settled it straight away and this saves me £8 or £9. Sisters can be very useful at times.

Striking firemen (1977).

______. This morning Jim Rawnsley gave a lecture on his view of the firemen's strike. He really let rip. He thinks all the striking firemen should be put up against a wall and shot. Blimey, we don't live in Chile or Argentina, Jim! (I almost said Spain here, but they are becoming more sensible and non-reactionary lately).

Got home at 5 o'clock. Mum and Dad are back from Luton. The funeral isn't until Tuesday and so they brought Edith & Ernest home too. They're going back on Monday.

I phoned John G in Rawtenstall. He is very well, in case you're interested.

Change of ink from red to black: I feel a little 'off it'. Almost as though I have a cold coming. In the bath at about 11. My neck aches. If it becomes any more painful I won't hesitate to chuck in work tomorrow.

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Wednesday May 25, 1977

Hot day. Home by 5 and fully expect to stay in tonight but it is not to be. Martyn rings after tea and suggests going for a drink in Guiseley. Bloody Hell! Why not? Top marks for this brilliant idea, Martyn! He comes up and 8 and we walk over the fields to the Commercial (dear Beckindale in the classic tv series 'Emmerdale Farm'). We begin with lager and go on to pernod and by 10pm we're quite pissed.

Martyn: brilliant idea

You won't believe this but we decided over our second pernod to go work in Ibiza or Majorca after our holiday. OK, I've said it all before but I've never had anyone to team up with before and Martyn is just as much pissed off with the United Kingdom of Gt Britain as I am. Tony too and Dave of Stockport wouldn't mind leaving this miserable land to find a life of fortune in the Ballearic Islands. How do we go about getting there though? Do we write to the Spanish Embassy or the British Tourist Board? Or what?

We walked home over the fields again but now heavily laden with cow excreta and a profusion of nettles seem to have mysteriously appeared. Up to our buttocks in shit. Home by 10.30 and I entertain Martyn to coffee and toast thickly spread with mustard. He waits to be collected by Karen (Cole) who makes an appearance near midnight. In the cold light of tomorrow morning I will probably think the whole idea of drifting off to Spain is bloody idiotic, but now - here at this minute - all I can think is 'Why not?'


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Sunday November 16, 1975

25th after Trinity. A cold, bleak day. I normally go to Maria's when Carole is in residence therein, but because of the dog I decide to scrap this tradition once and for all.

I woke up at 9.30. My throat feeling terrible. I gargle with salt and water and then inhale salt water up my nose - a painful experience. At 10 I go for a short walk around Greenfield Avenue in the drizzle which helps my head clear slightly. Back home I glance at the Sunday papers and drink tea.

This Franco business drags on and on. Spain is now wondering whether to unplug his kidney, brain and heart machines. He could go on for years in the present state and it's not doing the Spanish government much good.

Mum and Dad went off for the afternoon at 12, and John did his usual disappearing act in the direction of Maria's. Sue and I made lunch and Carole came round at 2.30 for hers. Sue and Lynn say they like her hair, and I think she is now coming round to liking it herself. Dave brings a pile of 'Paddington Bear' books round for Carole to look at. They're written for 10 year-olds, but Carole is just getting into them.
We sit watching television all afternoon with Sue & Peter and then move onto the radio at 6pm to listen to the top 20.

Mum and Dad come back at 7pm. I thought they'd be out all evening, but they want to watch the Royal Variety Performance. Carole and I want to watch it too, and so the two of us venture to her place in order that she can tell the Dowager Mrs Phillips that she's staying at Maria's another night. I do not like her father one bit. He's almost maniacal the way he carries on. He told his only daughter that her new hair style made her 'look like an inmate of Menston Hospital' and went on to say, over swigs of tea, that she'd lost her femininity. Most cruel of him, I thought, and we are glad to get away from her place. She was upset by the things Mr Phillips had said.

We had one drink in the Hare and then came home. Dave and Lynn had bought a supply of apricot wine in and all the family (other than John & Maria of course) sat down to watch the Royal Variety Performance. A bloody awful show it was too. The only good bits were the beginning and the end when we had a view of the Queen. She looked bored to death, but very attractive in an orange evening dress. Just how she puts up with it year after year I do not know. She really should award herself the Victoria Cross for sitting through that painful pantomime year in, year out.

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