Monday February 3, 1975

Busy day at the YP. Attempt to do a few letters in the afternoon but don't get through more than a handful. Sit in front of the television all night after having a bath. See 'The Likely Lads' - one of the funniest programmes around at the moment. Then sit in bed with Agatha Christie until nearly 1.0am.

Lynn and Dave went to Tiffany's in Leeds with Andy and his so-called cousin 'Judith'.________.

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Sunday February 2, 1975

Sexagesima. A beautiful morning. Up by 11 o'clock. John astounds me when he says he's not going out tonight. I realise he told Chris last night of this plan, but I put it down to the effects of alcohol and delirium since he paid his £8 deposit.

Dreamed last night that the Duke of Edinburgh was dead and I was the only person in the office to deal with it.

Lynn is, at this very moment, preparing to go to Bolton Abbey with Dave, and I can't help thinking slightly proud of myself. Why is that, you are all asking? Well, you see I commend myself on the fact that my scheming back in September brought these two young lovers together in the first place. Not that I've had anything to do with it since, but I feel full of pride and joy at the sight of them bounding merrily through life's playground. Love is certainly a marvellous thing.

The brilliance of the afternoon sun fades at about 5, and a fog descends upon us. I was almost convinced that Spring was here, but things look quite different now.

See 'The Gospel According to Matthew' an Italian film which drags on for ages. I much preferred 'The Greatest Sory Ever Told' with Max von Sydow. John Wayne didn't even put me off.

Christine rang to see if I was going out. I say no and she says Chris is also staying in. Really unusual for a Sunday night. We discuss the idea of going to Worcester on Feb 22 - a great idea.

Sue is in the Dales with Peter, and Lynn is at Bolton Abbey with Dave. Dad is at work. So John, Mum and I sit before the television. I delve into the bookcase and select another Agatha Christie - 'The Secret of Chimneys'. It's up to her usual brilliant standard. Read and see TV until after 12.

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Saturday February 1, 1975

Sleep until lunch at 12. Leap into the bath in order to revive myself, but even after this experience I don't really feel much better. All that sleep didn't seem to do any good.

See a film on the BBC and then go play 'Ruslan and Ludmilla' by Glinka and the prelude to Act III of Lohengrin by Mr Wagner. Yes, we aren't all unsophisticated Donny Osmond fans up here you know. The classics are as welcome here as they are in Covent Garden, and in some cases even more so.

My first free Saturday in years. Yes, I have the occasional one off, but it's much more pleasant to know that it's a permanent thing.

The papers are full of Edward Heath and Mrs Thatcher. I must admit, at first I abhored the idea of woman Tory leader, but these past few days have heralded a change. Good luck to her anyway. We certainly having nothing to lose. She can't make a worse mess of it than Heath did, and even if she does we'll forgive her because she's only a silly, dumb blond.

To the Hare & Hounds for a couple of drinks before moving on to a pub in Bingley, one of Andy's hang outs. The highlight of the evening was when Dave rang me up at 7 and said he was coming out. I'd no idea he was home this weekend. When the pubs shut John, Dave and I go to the new take-away in Guiseley. Food is horrible and what's more _______walked past on the arm of her boyfriend. ____ignored her completely.
Home in time to see a good Bette Davis film. Laughed all the way through. Sit in Lynn's bedroom until the early hours reading Agatha Christie.

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Friday January 31, 1975

Marita is 20 today. She'll be in Sheffield by now, but I made sure her card was in the post in good time. The poor girl hates the idea of being 20 - no longer the little teenager and all that. I suppose I will feel ancient too when the times comes (4 months yet).

A frantic, chaotic day at the YP. The Duke of Norfolk died in the night, and the phones haven't ceased ringing with queries about the new duke and Earl Marshal. I know everything about the 17th Duke of Norfolk off by heart now. Born in 1915, Miles Francis Fitzalan-Howard eldest son of the 3rd Baron Howard of Glossop and the 11th Baroness Beaumont. Married 1949, Anne Mary Theresa Constable Maxwell. 2 sons. 3 daughters. Residence: Carlton Towers near Goole. Heir: Edward Fitzalan-Howard who now becomes Earl of Arundel. Clever lad aren't I?

Carry on working through lunch and so Kathleen kicks me out at 4. Meet Lynn, Christine D, and Alison on the bus, and we are all home for just before 5. Lynn lodges a few complaints about the unimaginative meal awaiting us, and I go off upstairs to prepare for the usual Friday orgy.

To the Hare & Hounds as per usual with the regular mob. Chris and Christine don't come until nearly 10 o'clock and until then I rotate round the mob discussing all sorts of things. Give Chris £8 for the deposit for project Majorca, but he later gives me £5 back to see me through the week. Go to Wikis where nothing much takes place. I chat with Miss Dibb and have the occasional dance with 'CB', as I used to call her. John and I walk home arriving in at 2.30am. Eat piles of cheese and biscuits before hitting the sack.

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Thursday January 30, 1975

Whilst messing around with the EP at work I see that the headlines of last night's paper concerned Lord Snowdon and Mr Hamilton, the repulsive Labour MP who should have been shot years ago. It appears that Lord Snowdon has written to the publishers of Hamilton's new book 'My Queen and I', and has has asked him not to publish it. Obviously, he's been instructed to do this by Her Majesty herself or by Princess Margaret, who receives some obnoxious insults in the vile publication, and it is quite understandable that the Royal Family are hurt by it. I for one, absolutely refuse to read it. William Hamilton is so disgustingly low, it would be impossible for most normal people, even certain Labour members of Parliament, to stoop to his level.

Home at 6 o'clock to discover that I've mislaid £2 since last night. After a frantic search I fail to discover it, and sit about moping, pestering myself with worry, and tearing out large chunks of hair, screaming and biting my nails off. Quite upset really. Chris rings at 8.30 to say we may have got in somewhere for the holidays. The travel agent in question is ringing him back at 9.30. So I'll report on the details later. My fingers are crossed with expectancy.

Three hundred and twenty six years ago this day King Charles I was brutally murdered by his captors. A foul day ineed that was. What with William Hamilton's new book and this anniversary I cannot envisage much joy and happiness at Sandringham this week.Her Majesty may well be quaking in her boots.

Chris rings at 9.30 to say we have managed to get a place in Majorca for the weeks we wanted. Not too happy about Majorca, but Chris was assured it's a good place where we're going. More developments tomorrow.

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Wednesday January 29, 1975

A busy half day.Kathleen gives me a half-day off because she feels I've worked too hard lately - and this is the reward. Meet Christine outside the CA and we make our way to the Ostlers where I consume several pints of lager and spend a small fortune on the juke box. We go looking for tartan material in order to make some 'Rod Stewart style' scarfes. Don't find any we like, and proceed to make our way to the bus station. Masses of photographs are taken in a booth whilst waiting for a bus, and then fight and squabble over who is having which ones. Home at 3.30 or something very close & then sit in a chair with Agatha Christie. I really am passionate over reading at the moment, and having to wait for volume 2 of 'Edward VII' is hideous. Collapse underneath my book and sleep for ten minutes, which is weird for me. I'm becoming an old man before my time.

To the Hare with John, Christine and Chris at 8.45 - have a few lagers and then back here for coffee. Christine and I sit listening to records whilst John and Chris talk holiday brochures. I haven't the stomach to do so. A few nights with all these glossy magazines and I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Margaret Thatcher, Hugh Fraser and Ted Heath have been nominated for the Tory leadership, and it'll be a close battle between Uncle Ted and Mrs T. I'll die if the old bag wins. The thought of a woman Tory leader is repugnant in the extreme.

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Tuesday January 28, 1975

Ring Chris who informs me that the travel agent can't get us in at any of the places he suggested. He comes round at about 8.30 and we sit going wild through masses of repulsive books in order to select a new list of possible holidays. Mum makes some good suggestions and we end up with 11 different choices - ranging from Italy, Spain, Ibiza, Corfu to Cyprus. Don't fancy the idea of going to Famagusta. We'd end up being lynched in the streets by anti-British rioters.

See another old George Bernard Shaw film on BBC2. 'Major Barbara' or something, with Wendy Hiller and the two new child stars of the period, Rex Harrison and Robert Morley! That showws just how old it is. Sybil Thorndyke made a contribution too.

John and Chris go down to the Hare at 9.30 but I'm too involved with the film to bother about going. Off to bed at 11 with Agatha Christie. (Don't think for one minute that I'm having a liason with old Dame Agatha - when I say 'off to bed with Agatha' I mean with one of her books.)

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