Thursday March 16, 1978

Moon's first quarter 18:21

Dearest Christine's 22nd birthday. This afternoon I fought my way into town and purchased for the wonderous lady a can of British knickers and of course the ritual card. Tonight is Willie's 21st and I could not forget him either. I bought him a sordid volume entitled 'British Fishing', but with a naked lady exhibiting each 'catch'. The picture of the over weight salmon fisher in her wellies, and nothing else, got me. How did I have the nerve to purchase such a disgusting article?

The party anyway. Christine came at 8 (or was it 8:45?) and we both made a spectacular entry into the Hare and Hounds. We both drank like fish while Willie gloated over his dirty book, and we were joined by the cream of local society, Rick Marshall and Nigel Smith to name a few. We ended up all sharing a table. Rick kept peering over his glass and muttering: "Mick, you're alright, you are", as if it's only just dawned on him what a sound chap I am. The evening became blurred as it wore on. "This time I'm really going straight" said Rick sounding like somebody from a corny episode of 'Z Cars'.

Poor Christine is having boyfriend bother once more. I hung about until about 12:30 and then hot footed it home.

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Wednesday March 15, 1978

Oh bugger the old English handwriting today. I feel absolutely revolting. Nevertheless, I crawled out of bed and attempted to make an effort at the YP, but by 11:30am I was dead. In fact, at that fateful hour I was compelled to enter the lavatories of the Yorkshire Post and did wretchedly vomit forth. It was ghastly. At 12 I 'signed off' for the day and returned homeward. The omnibus bearing my pale corpse to Guiseley was within seconds of inspecting the remainder of the contents of the above mentioned stomach.

At home the situation is cold to say the least. Mama and Papa are still considering closing their respective diplomatic delegations and to me it seems that nothing but an out and out war is inevitable. For the remainder of the day I sat ~ quiet as a mouse ~ armed with a gas mask and copy of the New English Bible. Oh, it's all very sad. But this is what marriage is all about I do suppose.  I expect Mr & Mrs Thatcher (Conservative) often fall out in similar circumstances. Goodnight.

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Tuesday March 14, 1978

The March winds did blow. In fact, the blowing on Hawksworth Lane was gale force. The meteorological freaks will be having a field day.

David Greenwood, Lynn's boss, is celebrating his birthday tomorrow ___________________.

Mum: slewed

I came home from work to be confronted by dear Mama with the reddest face I have ever laid eyes on. She puts it down to the combination of the sun ray lamp and alcohol. She and Daddy quarrelled this afternoon and she decided to drown her sorrows. I promised not to tell a living soul that my mother has consumed a whole bottle of sherry whilst reclining 'neath the glowing lamp. She is thoroughly ashamed of herself. I say it's all well and good. If my dear old Ma can't get slewed once in a while, who can? By 6:30 Dad was still absent and she went round to Edith's.

Alexandre Dumas is a real dead beat. 'The Man in the Iron Mask' is boring me to death. After a couple of minutes with it I'm either asleep or distracted by something else.

Meanwhile: back to the excitement. At 9 o'clock I went to lay siege to the Blackwell residence and was roped into an old photo appreciation session. We had hysterics over some ancient images of Edith's granny, and much wine was partaken of in the process.  At midnight Mama returned homeward and I sat with Ernest (Edith was in bed) listening to his wartime reminiscences. It was almost 3:30am when I arrived home.

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Monday March 13, 1978

Once again an incredibly uninteresting day. Sarah's is not in the office this week. She's in horrid Wales with John MacMurray watching the Welsh National Opera. Somehow I think this relationship has more of a concrete base than any of her previous leaps into romance. Good luck anyway.

Tonight. I spent an hour or so writing to Jacq. Not a good letter by my standards, but Monday evenings are never inspiring, are they? (I don't suppose that any of you bother in the 21st century ~ to write that is.)

"Sunday, Bloody Sunday"

Once again, the television was the prominent source of entertainment. My eyes are going square. Saw 2 films. 'Bloody, Bloody Sunday' with Peter Finch, Glenda Jackson and Murray Head ~ all about homosexuals and middle class people like the Mather family; and the other film was 'Fright', in which Susan George played a babysitter who is raped by the psychopathic Ian Bannen. Honor Blackman was also in the star studded cast.

Today's deliberate mistake can be found in the first film title. Yes, it's not 'Bloody, Bloody Sunday' at all. It's 'Sunday, Bloody Sunday'.

Have received a postcard from Judith in Benidorm. Yeah, she wants the cheque for £28m sending back. No bloody likely.

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Sunday March 12, 1978

5th in Lent

A lazy, quiet day. Had a pleasant lunch with Mum, Dad and Lynn, and afterwards I put some polish on my dusty, beer stained boots, and prepared my wardrobe for my weekend jaunt to the fair capital of these islands of ours.

The only interesting occurrence was the screening on BBC2 of 'Hamlet' with Nicol Williamson playing the Prince of Denmark in the 1969 film of Mr Shakespeare's classic.

Dad and I are the only cultural residents of 58, Hawksworth Lane and no sooner had the first scene opened that Mama and my fair sisters scrambled from the room as though an incendiary device had just been deposited at the fireside. This is a sad aspect of 1978 social life.

To bed at 12:30 with Alexandre Dumas close at hand. I'm just starting chapter 5 now. It's entitled "Two Friends" and it depicts a scene featuring Anne, Queen-Mother of France and the clapped out old duchesse who first appeared on page 1, the Duchesse de Chevreuse.

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Saturday March 11, 1978

Sun rises 6:25 Sun sets 17:58

Bright sunny day. Lynn woke me at 10:30 to inform me that I was escorting her, on foot, to Yeadon to do some shopping. This was no ideal awakening my any means. I was out of bed by 11 and within minutes I was pouring a glass of beer for Ernest and glass of wine for Edith.

Yeadon.

Shortly afterwards to Yeadon with Lynn. The day was warm and we laughed and chatted on the way down the open road. We were home for 3pm weighed down with shopping. Lynn's feet were blistered and my hands were bright pink. And, dear friends, that was my day. Yes, it does seem pathetically short and mundane, but I cannot be expected to carry out earth shattering, spectacular feats of brilliance all the time. Perhaps you can look in tomorrow?  Oh, go on then I'll just say a bit more.

Mama and Papa went out for dinner and Sue, Pete, Chippy and girlfriend went off to Appletreewick at tea time supposedly 'camping'. Not much of the countryside will be seen if I know anything of my sweet sister. The pleasures of the flesh are nearer the top of her priorities than river side walks, but at 18 and with her great beauty, I cannot blame her.

Lynn, Dave and I dined by candlelight together (do you think that perhaps my presence was not welcome?) and afterwards we sat looking at the television. Boring.

To bed with 'The Man in the Iron Mask' but fell asleep after two pages. In fact, a clapped out old French duchess hadn't even finished talking to a bloke named after that nice brand of aftershave lotion ... er, Ah yes, Aramis.

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Friday March 10, 1978

Felt fatigued after the excesses of Oakwood Hall. It was a bright, sunny day with the birds chuntering away happily in the trees.

At lunchtime Eileen and I went to the library to get a couple of books by P.G. Wodehouse and Dumas's 'The Man in the Iron Mask'. If it takes me as long to read as 'The Count of Monte Cristo' I'll be here until July. However, Michael, with fortitude it will be done.

Christine phoned this afternoon to say her car stinks like an Indian restaurant and that I've splattered the interior with curry and raw onions. Oh God. We are going to Willie's 21st on Thursday. That should be something of a brawl.

I have received a letter from Carole. I am going to leave it pressed between these pages for you to look at. What do you think of it? I'm slightly confused by it, but no doubt in time the contents will sink in. I am not going to reply until the whole thing has been studied carefully.

Tonight I did absolutely nothing. In fact, I felt exhausted. 'The Man in the Iron Mask' was untouched. Saw a Susan Hayward film. It's interesting to note that all the cast of this 1962 film are now dead. Miss Hayward bit the dust in 1975, Peter Finch in 1976, Charles Chaplin in 1977, Margaret Rutherford in 1972, Richard Wattis in 1976 (?), and Enrico Caruso in 1927.

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