Sunday February 5, 1978

7th Sunday before Easter

Jacqui and I got up at 9, 10 or 11. Oh, I was in such a state. Felt ghastly. Did the cleaning up and created an avalanche of soap suds in the kitchen.

Jacq felt incredibly hungover, but we had planned to go out on Hampstead Heath with Trixie at 12:30. Chrissy took hours getting ready and we didn't get to Trixie's until after 1:00pm. The bloody pubs close at 2 and so we scrapped the idea of going on the Heath and instead we went to the Victoria Stakes pub opposite Trixie's flat. Jacq went into the ladies loos and was violently sick. Chrissy was very pale too. Trixie and I drank the normal capacity though.

Chrissy, Jacq & Trixie.

Trixie: her FiatX19.

It was a nice sunny day and so I took photographs of the party around Trixie's new Fiat X19. Never have I seen such a voluptuous automobile. I want one, please.

Jacqui recovered slightly in the sunshine and is completely recovered at her mother's where we had a good lunch. Steak pudding followed by strawberry slush. Afterwards, I felt completely exhausted and before long I was hurtling along the underground from Finsbury Park to Victoria with my best girl by my side. I was hurried onto a damp, noisy coach and driven out of London at 6:00pm. Coaches are always the same, full of bronchial, asthmatic old men and West Indian doctors smoking Capstan full-strength cigarettes. Ghastly. Slept for most of the journey but had the usual break at Leicester.

Home for 11. Spent a pleasant hour with Mum and Dad.

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Saturday February 4, 1978

Sun rises 7:35 sun sets 16:55 Independence Commemoration Day (Sri Lanka)

Keep a diary and one day it may keep you. How true these words are. Anyway, here goes.  A filthy, wet day. Jacqui, Chrissy and I went to Muswell Hill and spent a fortune on wine, cheese and french bread. Over £20 I think. We intended going to see the Arsenal play Aston Villa but the rain deterred us. Instead, the two us went to the Minstrel Boy pub for a few drinks.

Chrissy is going to join a kibbutz as soon as they'll have her, and so Jacqui is coming north within a few months. She says she'll stay at a Leeds Youth hostel until a flat can be found. I think she's remarkably brave about it all. You wouldn't see me dossing down like a refugee.

Back at the flat: we dressed in tramps gear and cracked open a bottle of wine and waited for the first party arrivals. A few came after 9, but it's 'dead' for most of the night. Cheryl came with a new boyfriend, Steve. Joy, who goes to Holland for three months from tomorrow, Shirley, Jake, Trixie (a killer). &c, &c. Jacq was off socialising for most of the night with her male work mates. Trixie, Cheryl and Steve stayed until the end, and we were all drunk, dancing to Glenn Miller. Trixie noted that Steve was being over familiar with me considering we are of the same sex. We laughed a good deal.


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Friday February 3, 1978

Out of bed at the crack of dawn and head for the deep south. It was a freezing cold day and I couldn't be bothered to get out of the coach at Leicester and instead I endured the boring conversation of a guy who went to school with one of the Gordon Giltrap Band. Big bloody deal. Arrived at Victoria at 1:00 and met Jacqui. She has a shorter hair cut.

Jacqui.

We had a few drinks in Victoria and then went to St Catherine's House. A ghastly task. Seven million John Wilsons were born  in the Yorkshire area in March, 1853. A daunting experience, and after an hour I was thoroughly defeated. It must be bliss to have a surname like Jacq's. Discovered very little but found that a John Wilson had married a Bella Fawbert in the North Bierley area in 1874. Her death in March, 1926 says she's Rella.

We went on to the flat where I demolished half a loaf with ease. Chrissy was in but Jan was at the doctors. The poor thing picked up Red flu in Austria last week.

At 7:30 Jacq's Mum's, Trixie, and brother, Peter, came round and we went for a drink to a pub called the John Baird. Trixie knocks back pints like no tomorrow. However, she's remarkably flash and 'Vogue-like' with Christian Dior shoes and posh hair. Pete has grown a beard. Trixie jokes and says he's quiet because he's in love with a bird called Alice. Poor bugger.

From the (John) Baird we went to a Greek restaurant and noshed our heads off - all at Trixie's expense. Pete went off to work at 10 and the three of us went to the Clissold until closing time.

Jacq passed her driving test yesterday - her 23rd birthday - and she drove us back to the flat in Trixie's mini which is to be exchanged tomorrow for a Fiat X19, whatever that may be.

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Thursday February 2, 1978

The Presentation of Christ.

Maria & JPH.

Prepare to visit Muswell Hill. Got everything packed and then went for my appointment at 69, Silverdale Drive, with my brother and dear sister-in-law. Went at 8:00 and stayed until 10:30 or so. JPH is almost walking. He calls me 'Mick' which sounds hilarious. A real darling, he is, and by far the most attractive child I have ever laid eyes upon. One day I expect him to make a thunderous impact on the film world or maybe figure on the political scene. Maria is so like Molly. A good evening. I managed to collect some of the gear John pinched from me at the New Year. He brought me home, and I finished packing my meagre, pathetic belongings.


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Wednesday February 1, 1978

Not writing anything today. It's my diary and when I say I cannot be bothered you should accept it. I'm glad of one thing though. January is over until 1979. Once this lousy month is out of the way it's a clear run to daffodil time, frisky lambs, and tulips waving in the Spring breeze. Marvellous eh? Would Wordsworth have been proud of my sentiments?

Carry on with poor King Edward VI. It's a bloody shame he didn't live longer. But, come to think of it, if he hadn't died prematurely England would have never had a Queen Elizabeth I, and look what a loss that would have been? If she hadn't reigned then I now would have been writing this in Spanish because Philip II would have undoubtedly made England a Spanish colony after his Armada victory over Drake. But, hang on, would the Spanish Armada have set out at all if Edward VI had still been on the throne? Would Sir Francis Drake have been in such a position too under another monarch? Oh, God. What hole am I digging here?

Clement Attlee.

Would Clement Attlee have been Labour party leader if Hereward the Wake had never existed? One could go on like this indefinitely. Alternative history. Fascinating.

Weather: snow still hanging about. Blast it.






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Tuesday January 31, 1978

Moon's last quarter 23:51.

More snow. Marita's 23rd birthday, but something of a flop. I saw her at 4:30 on Wellington Street and she mentioned something about going out for a drink - a consolation booze-up - with Chris and Denise. I readily agreed to join the party.

At home I prepared a suitable birthday card (a Mig Rhodes montage no less, made from old YP photographs) and readied myself for this unusual Tuesday night venture. But at 8:00 she phoned saying Mr & Mrs Fountain have arranged to take her out for a surprise meal, and so it's a kick in the teeth for our night out. Lynn became suspicious and said __________.

King Edward VI.

I sat reading Edward VI by Hester Chapman, brooding over what might have been. The 1540s were troubled times and I must admit I'm quite confused about the intrigues of the Seymours and the Greys. I have managed to get to page 131 though. One thing's for sure, I no longer feel sorry for Lady Jane Grey.

Margaret Thatcher's immigration speech is creating a furore. There is also talk that Harold Wilson resigned when he did in March 1976 to lessen the impact of the breakdown of the Snowdon marriage. Did I comment on the closeness of these events at the time? I believe I did. I no longer read my old diaries regularly. I'm nauseated by myself, and keep the journals in a black box under lock and key.

To bed at 12:15 with King Edward VI.




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Monday January 30, 1978

Jacqui phoned to make certain I am visiting her next weekend. Of course I am. I rang Dave G to let him know that the holiday is booked and he gave a sigh of relief. It was all worrying. No doubt the Rt Hon Merlyn Rees, MP, worries in this fashion every morning. One day it's the fire brigade, and the next day it's the police.

I phoned CB. She and Philip H patched things up on Sunday. God, she was pissed!

Naomi.

Coming home from town I bumped into Naomi (not exactly 'bumped' because she was at the steering wheel of a vehicle whilst I was on foot). She told me that Carole was in tears on Saturday afternoon and that they both (she and Fogarty) telephoned apologising for their silly behaviour. I hadn't been aware of all this. Naomi saw Carole this afternoon, who said that Peter F is an ass. My apologies to Carole are now very necessary. I ruined her afternoon, but at the same time I'm resentful of Fogarty's attitude. He should not be allowed to get away with it.

Laughed with Naomi about the marvellous food and the visit to the Wharfedale Gate. She's had everyone moaning about the choice of pub, and demanding explanations as to why we had to endure Saturday night therein. Yes, that was my fault.

Tonight. Read the Lord Peter Wimsey book and actually finished it. Can't say I'm all that impressed by Miss Sayers. I have read quite a few of her books and each one has left me cold. Rather boring, long-winded and lacking in that 'hold' which novels of this type should inflict. Dame Agatha (Christie) does it to well.

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