Wednesday June 4, 1975

The 20th birthday of Mr Ratcliffe. The post brings a letter from him, telling me of his journey down (to Hayes), and certain details about the hotel itself. A letter too from Judith R, and one from good old Dave. Tonight I persuaded John to write to Dave to remind him about the records he borrowed in April & is still in possession of.

This referendum thing ends tomorrow after what seems like months and months of campaigning and useless BBC programmes. Tomorrow night we'll all be able to breathe easily again. I'm still not going to vote, but I hate to think I am making no contribution to such a historic event. One never knows. I might be voting 'YES' by this time tomorrow night.

The Derby was run at Epsom this afternoon. Grundy won. I looked in on one of those midget tvs in the Press Hall. The Duchess of Gloucester paraded herself at the racecourse knee-deep in plaster. HRH broke her leg whilst skiing some weeks ago, but she is carrying out engagements undaunted.

Lynn and Dave sit in the dining room compiling a photo album. I retire at 10pm for a bath.

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Tuesday June 3, 1975

One of the most hideous days of the year. Rain, rain, and even more rain. I went to the YP wrapped in two woollen pullovers as a protective shield against the ridiculously cold weather. Snowing in June!

Just think, tomorrow may be the last day that Britain is a member of the EEC. What a tragedy that would be if it were true. Although I do not agree with the idea of referenda and all they entail, I'm nearly persuaded to go out and use my vote. We should stay in the Common Market, but I don't like the way the people have been asked to decide. A General Election on the subject should have been offered to us - the only democratic process in Britain. We'll be one step down the ladder to hopelessness if Britain chucks herself out of Europe. Things have changed since Lord Salisbury went on about 'splendid isolation' in the 1890s.

Quite a busy day really. I sat attempting to fathom something out this afternoon. What is the difference between a step-brother and a half-brother? Does such a thing as a 'half-brother' exist at all? This line of thought began when I dug something out of the files on Martin Parsons, the step-brother of Ld. Snowdon. Ooh, and did you know that Lord Snowdon has a half-brother, Peregrine Thomas Owen Llewellyn Armstrong-Jones, who was born Nov 15, 1960? Remarkable really considering that Snowdon is 44 now. Having a brother 30 years younger than oneself cannot be a pleasant thing at all really.

Home at 5.30 for dinner consisting of roast lamb & roast potatoes. Lamb is always greasy and horrible, but the others seem to like it.

John is still minus employment but Mum may have found him a job at Moon's, her place of employment. I hope and pray he finds something soon. It's quite impossible to find anything in this economic climate.

See 'Edward VII' which is up to its brilliant standard.
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Monday June 2, 1975

Holiday in Irish Republic. Last night was hilarious really. After arguing with CB about Gary and telling her of my own experience with June, we are caught almost 'red handed' sitting on top of one another in a corner by none other than Gary himself. Christine and he exchanged words and he left 10 minutes later to 'have an early night'. He doesn't love herat all and it pains me to see her virtually throwing herself at him. However, after my own experiences with JB I don't have a leg to stand on. I threw myself at her for two years without receiving anything back whatsoever!! CB isn't as mad to do a thing like that (I hope).

Worry all day about John. What with unemployment being the way it is at the moment I'm a bit dubious about whether he'll find anything easily. The poor devil looks really cheesed off.

Quiet day at the YP. Sarah is on holiday until next Monday and so the office isn't all that happy. Miss Collis brightens the place up no end.

It snowed in certain parts of England today, and in Essex snow stopped the county cricket match! The Second of bloody June and we have weather not fit for February.

CB rang to say she accidentally left the Monty Python book in the phone box last night. I had to laugh because she's been chasing after the damned thing since January.

I rang Marita to let her know I was still alive. Received a letter from David today.

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Sunday June 1, 1975

1st after Trinity. It was nearly 5am on June 1 before we were all allocated places of sleep at the Ratcliffe abode. John, crippled with his ankle, and scarred for life thanks to the dog, was passed out next to me in a sleeping bag on the lounge floor, and Peter was placed on a camp bed in Chris's room after undergoing harsh recouperation treatment in the garden. The poor boy was hysterical and didn't quite know who he was, or who anyone else was for that matter.

Awoke at 11.30. Mrs Ratcliffe made me a cup of tea, and I went out into the garden to mock Peter, who didn't look at all healthy propping up a lilac tree. Mrs R bandaged J's foot and she didn't bat an eye lid when he explained just how he had received his injuries.

At 12 we went to the Fleece for a couple of drinks before lunch. All the gang, except the Grahams and Smiths, came in and we sat near the fruit machine laughing about last night. Peter was in high spirits considering.

Chris leaves at 5.15 this afternoon for his new post at Hayes, Middlesex. No one really wanted him to go, but he seemed in cheery form. Peter brought me and John home for lunch at 1pm.

Dave is messing about with John's car and they spend the afternoon dismantling it.

Out with Christine to the Hare at 8.30. However, at 8.15 John learned from his employers that his services will no longer be required after next week, due to lack of incoming work. We're all astounded. Poor John - redundant.

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Saturday May 31, 1975

John and I go into Otley in afternoon for a lark around, but with the main intention of finding a decent tool shop for my younger brother and eventual heir. I say heir because the title will of course go to him and his children after I'm gone, because unless CB marries me, I will not produce any offspring. Christine Braithwaite is the only person whom I'd consider making my duchess.

Home at 5.30 to find Mum and Dad looking sun-tanned after a week in Scotland laden with relics and souvenirs of Balmoral and Inveraray. They tell us the tale and explain how they managed to motor 1300 miles in seven days. Glad to see them home safely.

To the Fleece with Dave, Lynn and John. I tore a hole in my trousers climbing into Mr Baker's sports car, but otherwise received no other injuries, well other than verbal ones that is. At the off-licence in Guiseley we were asked our age! Twenty years old, and people still think I'm 15.

All the mob gather in the Fleece and we move on to Laura's at 9.30. A drunken evening follows. Laura's parents are nice folk. Much nicer than I ever imagined. Her eighty-six year-old granny was a right case too. Chris, Pete M, John, Raymond and his mate, and me walked back down Town Street at 2am and we left chaos and devastation in our path. John fell off the causeway and sprained his ankle, and was then bitten by Dandy, the Ratcliffe hound, on our arrival at 21, Victoria Drive. Poor Pete had never been drunk before. And WAS he drunk!

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Friday May 30, 1975

Friday again. Feeling miserable because Christine doesn't love me, and no doubt I ruined a perfect friendship by telling her I'm besotted with her. However, I'm not dwelling on that any more today.

At 8 o'clock we went to the Hare & Hounds and I was roused from my dreary state by Marian and Maura, who were sitting in a corner debating the idea of going for a meal in the Hare restaurant. Embarassment followed when I explained to Marian that I'd gone into Woolworth's, where she told me she worked, in order to have a chat, and she dissolved in a heap of hysterics beneath the table. She explained that at Gillian Barker's party she'd been too drunk to say she was a cartographer, evidently someone who draws maps, and amidst the giggles coming from her and Maura, she told me she'd never worked in Woolworth's, especially never on the sweet counter. The girl is horribly mad.

Saw poor Christine for about ten minutes. Mr Braithwaite was taken into hospital this afternoon, and her Mum didn't specify in the note she'd left as to which hospital he'd been taken. Gary took her off at about 9 o'clock.

John, Sue, Pete and me go to Wikis which is quiet really. Have a good dance. The DJ is playing a lot of James Brown. Meet a little girl from Hill Way - Shirley - who delights me. My dreams are shattered when she says she is only 15. All the same, there is no denying she is a nice looking bird. Of course, I won't see her again.

Thursday May 29, 1975

The Press is still full of the Prince of Wales's beard. Certain annals of the newspaper industry have gone so far as to say that HRH was breaking naval rules by parading himself with his moustache before his mother, the Lord High Admiral. In the Royal Navy you either have to have a 'full-set' i.e. moustache and beard, or nothing at all, and when His Royal Highness was installed as Grand Master of the Order of the Bath - brandishing a ginger moustache - he was breaking the law. Anyway, he left to join his ship, the Hermes, later on today clean shaven. And that is the end of that.

Saw 'Top of the Pops' on TV and do little else. At least it is pay day today, and £6 is going into the bank for the holiday. Bye Bye.

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