Friday October 27, 1978

My day off free from the drudgery of the YP. I was eating kippers for breakfast when Jacq arrived. My head was throbbing and I could think of nothing worse than having to trail to Haworth for this long promised days outing. The delights of Bronte land are not well placed on the bus routes and all I can put it down to is that perhaps the West Yorkshire Passenger Transport Executive is not impressed by the likes of 'Vilette' and 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall'.

We arrived there at 12 and went straight to the Black Bull. I was in no mood for boozing. The Black Bull was, of course, often frequented by Branston Bronte, whose sole claim to fame was his invention of Branston chutney.

We pondered as to whether a pissed Charlotte Bronte staggered across this same old stone floor back in the 1850s. At 2:30 we swapped to the King's Arms and then took the air on Haworth Moor, which neither of us found impressive. Ugly in fact. What startled me was the sunshine as it always seems to piss down in Haworth.

At tea time we journeyed home and then went to Salvo's in Headingley for seafood pizzas. Shear greed really because neither of us were hungry. At about 9 we moved on to the Central, for the loud, pulsating disco. John Travolta imitators were gyrating everywhere. We both felt quite sick, bloated and uncomfortable. Drank rum and orange. Home at 11 on a large, red bus.

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Saturday November 12, 1977

I woke at about 12 and could hear Mum yelling about something from her bed. Evidently she did hear Jacqui and I listening to the stereo in the early hours and is far from happy about it. I hid for quite a while beneath the sheets until some sort of plan of action could be worked out in my enfeebled mind. I decided upon the straight, honest, Richard Nixon approach and just marched, with head held high, into her bedroom and said sorry. She was perfect from then on and just said in that famous, soft, musical voice: "Michael, you take your mother for granted." I fear I do. And she's ill too. I am a swine.

Haworth: the parsonage.

After lunch Jacqui and I got a bus to Haworth (Bronte Country and all that). It's like Hell on earth. I soon see why Charlotte, Emily and Anne never reached the age of 40. Bleak is hardly the word. What's more, it snowed. We dashed round the parsonage and then into a cafe where hot tea and cream buns failed to revive us. Felt ill and cold. Jacqui giggled. She can hardly wait to tell the folks back home who have never seen a desolate moor or the rampaging spectre of Heathcliff.  We spent more time on the road than we did at Haworth, and at 5.30 we got a bus home.


Tonight we thawed out and watched TV. Saw Penelope Keith and Lord Carnarvon on the Michael Parkinson Show.

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