Wednesday December 10, 1980

_. On to Leeds from Bradford at 8. A dull day. Every paper full of Lennon's end. Phoned Mum when the news came into the office that Mrs Clay, the wife of the landlord of the Royal pub in Pudsey, had been murdered at Dewsbury Railway station. The Royal is a Karen and Steve stronghold and they'll certainly know the unfortunate dame. Is she perhaps the 14th Ripper victim? 

Phoned Ally too. She came over at 7:30. Coronation Street is really gripping at the moment. Poor Emily has discovered that she's living with a bigamist ['Bigamy? Lady this is bigger than the both of us!]. 

Dave G phoned just to make sure Saturday is still on. Spent the night with Ally in the kitchen mixing pizza pie, and juggling with tarts and flans. By 11 I had had quite enough. Felt buggered. 

Frankie Howerd was on the telly tonight [whilst we were cooking in the kitchen] and we could hear Mum roaring with laughter. I think I can say Frankie is one of the few people who never fails to leave her in fits. Another one is Uncle Harry, but where is he?

Watched a programme on the life of Max Miller and retired to bed at 12:30 where I now sit listening to the rain on the window as I read John Lennon's obituary in the Times. 

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