Showing posts with label umberellas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label umberellas. Show all posts

20100414

Thursday July 24, 1975


As far as mechanical objects are concerned I am a complete and utter failure. You may recall that when I last borrowed an umberella (Dave B's) I had the misfortune to render it useless in Guiseley Railway Station when it jammed just as my train was approaching. Well, I suppose you are asking 'why bring this up?' and 'what's it got to do with us?', &c. Well, I'll tell you. When I arrived home at 1am this morning from Carole's I found that her Dad's umberella, which she had kindly lent me, and jammed in the up position and no persuasion of any kind would make it close up. Had I been on the platform of one of the many our great British railway stations I would have had to smash it to pieces with my bare hands, but because I was at home I took relief in the knowledge that it would come to no harm on the garage floor. And it's out there even now, 24 hours later. Not even John can do anything for it. Poor Mr Phillips isn't going to be happy when he finds out.

In her capacity as Mistress of the Robes, Sarah accompanied me to town for a trouser purchasing session. I managed to get a pair costing £9.90, which is the most I've ever forked out for trousers. We took an extra half hour for lunch and managed to fit one in the Generation Bar. I was livid and drained of all patience by the imbecility of the bar staff and I nearly died of thirst too. Efficiency is a must behind a bar, and that wench certainly had none.

I actually rang Denny this afternoon to see if we really need typhoid jabs - her being a travel agent I thought she'd have been notified. She said it didn't matter either way really, and something about it (the jab) taking four weeks to get into the blood! I ask her to come on Saturday night, and it all seemed like old times again.

Home at 6 and Carole rings an hour later to see if I want to go for a meal with the Macdonalds and John and herself tomorrow. I think 'Oh sod the expense' and say yes. She goes away for two weeks at the weekend, and I', still hell bent on retaining my absolute freedom. I must, I bloody well must.

-==-

Saturday May 5, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds Poor Diana Dors has run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. Aged 52, she has suffered from cancer. We laz...