Thursday March 25, 1976

Carole, Lynn, Dave, Mum, Dad and I go over to see Auntie Mabel for the evening. She's taking Uncle Jack's passing like a brave warrior really and I think she is marvellous.

We all laugh at her old photographs and drink apricot wine, and her home-made peach wine and sherry. David teased her in his usual way. Everyone definately takes to him - I've realised this after knowing him quite well now for two years or so. A pleasant, cheerful character who can get away with 'blue murder' - that's our Dave.

(Michael) Foot won the first Labour leadership ballot. He could well be the first British Prime Minister to be called Michael. However, James Callaghan must not be underestimated. He will not go without a struggle and his wife, Audrey, is at this very moment measuring the bedrooms and No. 10 for new damask curtains because it's common knowledge that the present chintzy drapes have been hanging since Bonar Law's time.

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Thursday October 16, 1975

Up at the crack of dawn and make a few final touches in readiness for my venture south. Complete darkness awaits me outside at 6.45am as I set out, suitcase in hand, down Hawksworth Lane. I travel by 55 bus to Leeds where a slight drizzle awaits me. Meet Peter near Schofield's and he too is armed with a suitcase very similar to mine.

Our journey down is one of little excitement. After combing through the Daily Telegraph and the Sun we eat fruit gums. At Leicester we have a coffee in one of those filthy, giagantic mortuarys. Hardly a decept cup.

In London's Victoria Coach Station for just after 1pm and I'm frozen silly. Tow arm up whilst we're waiting for Chris we attempt to find a coffee bar or something, but somehow end up with my already ice-cold hand wrapped around an equally ice-cold pint of lager. It was whilst we were sat in this position that Chris found us.

Depositing our cases out of the way we proceed to do a quick tour of the famous bits of London close to Victoria. Buckingham Palace is our first port of call and I see with great pride that Her Majesty is in residence. The beautiful autumn day, and the foliage in the park made it a sight to behold indeed. Pete hadn't seen the palace before, so it wasn't a wasted journey. 10, Downing Street was also on the agenda, but as usual it looked deadly quiet. The PM was no doubt having his afternoon nap upstairs with Mary. The old story about Nero fiddling whilst Rome burned could easily adapted to Mr Wilson and his afternoon bedroom activities.

Back to Hayes and the Arlington Hotel for 8pm. We wash and change and go out for a drink. Back for 11, and we sit about laughing and watching Chris's TV until after 12. He certainly is lucky having a place like that. He will be too spoiled to ever re-adapt himself to ordinary home life when the time comes.

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