Sunday February 26, 1978

3rd Sunday in Lent.

Edith and Ernest are going to live near their son, Kenneth in Devon. Isn't this awful? My best adoptive grandparents are deserting me for clotted cream, and all that. Mum immediately blanks out the sad details but says: "wouldn't it be nice to buy number 54?" I agree. The Blackwells live in a detached house which must be worth £22,000 and within months (after considerable alteration) could be worth as much as £30,000. Dad, as usual, is pessimistic and sceptical.

Margaret: 'ugly'

Ernest, looking at our Sunday Mirror, says Princess Margaret is 'ugly' and 'looks 60'. Never! Just because the dear thing's gone off to Mustique again (yesterday) with Mr Llewellyn Ernest is following the establishment tradition of 'blackening' her name. She is, and no doubt always will be, a very attractive woman, and her sexual appetite, whether it is for Welsh pop singing gentry or not, should be of no concern to peasants such as us. As long as HRH continues to dish out the honorary degrees, snip the ribbons, and make the speeches then she is fulfilling her intended role.

I did nothing all day but eat and roll around in the lounge. At 9 I went with Mum and Dad to Edith & Ernest's where we watched 'Anne of a Thousand Days' ~ a story very roughly based on Anne's Boleyn's brief association with King Henry VIII. Richard Burton made a very unimpressive monarch.

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Monday September 12, 1977

A ghastly day. Staggered to work feeling like Anne Boleyn must have felt after her tragic loss. Lady Jane Grey too, and Lord Haw Haw. Yes, my head was far from well. Abominable is a far too mild an adjective to use. By 12 noon I was moaning, yawning and close to tears. I phoned Tony who was also very close to death. I informed him that I could stand no more and on putting down the receiver I lost consciousness and fell crashing to the floor from my desk. Some amiable editor must have carried me from the building and placed me on an omnibus because I regained consciousness somewhere in the Guiseley area at about 1pm.

Luncheon was also a great strain and afterwards I fell from the table and into bed. You'll be pleased to know that by tea time I was more or less back to normal. Oh what a time. As I grow older my hangovers get steadily worse. By the time I'm 25 I shall be paying regular visits to one of those rehabilitation centres. You may laugh, but it's true.

Autumn: nationalised?

Some of that famous glint came back to my sad old eyes at 7.30 when 'Coronation Street' came on the television. It's programmes like this that make life so well worth living, folks.

Nothing much more to say, playmates. Have you enjoyed reading this page? Good. September is always such a nice month, don't you think? Or have the authorities in your era scrapped the old months system? Well, it wouldn't surprise me if they have nationalised autumn.

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Wednesday June 15, 1977

Lynn got me up at at about 7 and I watched her leave the house at 7.15. She's going to the Isle of Man on Yorkshire Light Aircraft business.

Mama and Papa arrived home from Wales at tea time. They have endured constant rain with the exception of Sunday and have spent a fortune on hotel bills. Neither of them look as though they've been on holiday and I feel sorry for them. We have bacon and sausages. I tell them Lynn is in the Isle of Man. Mum immediately begins to worry. Her precious daughter being up in one of them light aircraft, and all that. They only have little engines, you know. We sat until about 10.30.

(David) Greenwood phoned from the Isle of Man to say Lynn should have arrived at Yeadon at 8.30. Worry turned into mild panic but before anything else happened in she walked. She had been for a drink with Dave Cutler at the Aero Club. Why couldn't she have phoned? Dad said: "This isn't like Lynn at all, is it?" Precisely. _____________.

Finished reading Anne Boleyn by Marie Louise Bruce and read Ghost Stories by M.R. James.

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Wednesday June 1, 1977

Phoned Carole this afternoon. She used some marvellous adjectives and in the space of a few minutes referred to me as 'chicken', 'lamb' and 'poppet'. We discussed going to London on June 11 but have no idea how to go about it. Grange's Coaches have gone bankrupt.

The only sad thing about going on the rampage on the continent with Martyn is Carole. I'm more attached to her now than I ever was before - even though things get somewhat stormy at times. Neither of us are particularly placid and we just fail to see eye to eye at times. This doesn't mean we think any less of each other.

On to a more unpleasant subject: Money. Barclaycard want £70 from me by June 6. They've brought my bloody credit payment day forward by three bloody weeks! No chance of paying so I'll just have to pay what I can manage and hope that some idiot in Stockton-on-Tees (or wherever Barclaycard hangs out) is endowed with a loving, gentle nature.

Think of poor Christine. The funeral is tomorrow and I only hope they both bear up. The agony must be incredible. However, I shan't bother her for a week or so because people like me must only be a hindrance at such a time as this.

Tony and Martyn came this evening and we went to the Hare & Hounds at Heaton. We had no money at all and we only drank half pints. Disgraceful, I know, especially in Jubilee week, but what else can be done?

Tony was a complete misery tonight for some reason. Home at about10 o'clock. To bed with Anne Boleyn by Marie Louise Bruce. A very interesting book and not one I'd normally read. The Tudor period is something I haven't touched upon since I was 14 or 15 years old. I'm quite ignorant on the subject.

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Tuesday May 31, 1977

CB: completely flattened

A horrible, sad day. Christine rang at about 10 and said she wouldn't probably be able to attend my Silver Jubilee party. She sounded so strange, and her voice was full of sadness. I asked why, and she told me her father had died yesterday evening. I was thoroughly lost for words and shocked. She cried a bit and I think I blurted something about going to see her straight from the YP and then put the phone down.

I last saw poor Mr Braithwaite on April 29 and to think I will never see him again leaves me cold. Death is a wicked thing. In CB's shoes I'd just fall to pieces.

Left work at 4.30. Marita picked me up on Wellington Street. I told her the news and questioned her as to whether it's quite right calling in on somebody so soon after a tragedy. She thinks it can well be a comfort and so I'm encouraged. Christine is ashen faced and quiet. She hasn't quite grasped what has happened yet. Mrs B was sat smoking and did not stop talking. In fact both of them were constantly chattering about irrelevant topics and only when a lull in the conversation occurred it became obvious that they're acutely distraught. Christine's eyes were full of tears. The poor things are completely flattened. God knows what they'll do. Mr B was always the life and soul of the party -  & even I, who barely knew him, thought of him as a kind, warm and tremendous character.

CB brought me home at 5.30 and the whole family offered some sympathy and comfort.

Although the evening was sunny and bright I felt cold & miserable.

I rang Carole at lunchtime but only her obnoxious boss was in. Said I'd ring back but never got round to it.

Tony rang at 8 to say he's finally received communication from Denise in Australia. _____________.

Just watched TV until midnight and thought constantly of poor Christine and her mother. Even Lynn, who'd been working at the Hare, reports that they've all heard the news. To bed with Anne Boleyn by Marie Louise Bruce.

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Friday October 17, 1975

We rise from our slumbers at some unearthly hour and head towards the pulsating capital of these Islands (is it called London, or something like that?) After several train rides and a tube adventure we find ourselves at Earls Court. I cannot fail to be completely taken in by that massive structure. The crowds, the people and the atmosphere in general is completely unique, but the only fault in all this is that the magical atmosphere doesn't stay all that long with me. Chris and Peter can wander around looking at the same things over and over again, but I look at everything the once and then call it a day. Three hours in Earls Court is two hours too long for me. I did what most peasants did. I stood wide-eyed in front of the Rolls Royce stand, and pretended not to notice the flashy, American trash. Chris was delighted just to look at clapped out old Vauxhalls and Fords.

After what seemed like hours at Earls Court the three of us go to the Tower of London by tube. Neither Chris or Pete had seen the jewels, and so it makes my fifth visit worthwhile! A guided tour around the tower by an endearing old Yeoman of the Guard ended in the chapel of St Peter Ad Vincula, where Anne Boleyn and all the rest are entombed. The jewels are still as beautiful and the Imperial State Crown takes the breath away from all who see it.

After 'doing the tower' we go over to the Tiger Bar where we have a few drinks until 8pm. We go for a meal at the fairly new Tower Hotel, where Peter nearly rendered himself unconscious on a low-hanging light fitting. Chris tripped and fell off the causeway on the way out and slid down a bank and ended up flat on his back underneath a Mercedes-Benz! This caused for some kind of celebration and so we returned to the Tiger Bar. Leave by train for Hayes at about 10.30.


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