Saturday August 26, 1978

Sun rises 06:03 Sun sets 20:01

Up at 10. Sarah made me scrambled eggs on toast. I felt slightly worse for wear. Sarah and Delia fussed over me. They went to the Ilkley Antiques Fair at 11 and dropped me at home. A quick change of clothes and I went back to Leeds to meet Jacq and Trixie at the Dragonara. First I went to the Y.W.C.A to pay my respects to Hayden, who begged me to find him a surgeon who might perform a head transplant on him.

Went with Jacq and Trixie to Whitelocks. We sat from 12:30 until 3 in the pleasant atmosphere of one of Leeds's finest and most ancient taverns. Afterwards we went to Trixie's room at the hotel for even more drink, and finally, at about 5:30 we left for Guiseley.

John and Maria had been round in the afternoon but we just missed seeing them. After dinner with the family we took Lynn & Dave to the Drop where we celebrated the coming wedding, minus 2 weeks. Pernod dribbled everywhere. Lynn was quite overcome by it all and had to go sit outside.

Back to Pine Tops afterwards.

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Friday August 25, 1978

Trixie came to stay at the Dragonara for the duration of the Bank holiday. This evening Jacq and I went to meet her at the hotel and we took her to Len's Bar where Sue Tirbutt was having a party. Trixie was in fighting form and looked fit and well while knocking back the usual pints of bitter. I introduced her to (Alan) Macgregor, who served in the Royal Navy with Derek Sate. Hayden came with Jacq. _________________. Jacq, Trixie, Hayden, Sarah, Carol J and I went to the Nouveau club at 11pm from Len's and stayed until about 2:30.

Trixie left for the Dragonara at about 1am but we stuck it out until the bitter end. Sarah was horribly pissed. At the end of the evening Jacq disappeared into the darkness with Hayden and Carol drove Sarah and I to West End Lane, Horsforth. We staggered and fell around in her kitchen and I made some ridiculous adjustments to her father's shopping list on the table. At about 3 I retired to the pink suite at Ivory Towers.


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Thursday August 24, 1978

St Bartholemew

Nightmare of a day. At about 8 this morning I sprained my ankle, or perhaps twisted it, down in Guiseley whilst going for my bus. I tripped on a crooked pavement and fell through the door of Rhodeses Newsagents shop and landed on a revolving Christmas card display, showering shoppers with cellophane, glitter covered robins, and grotesque Santa Clauses.

Wracked with pain for the rest of the day I staggered about the office to the moronic amusement of my colleagues. What with my arse, and now this.

Jacq dissolved when I told her. She came and collected me with a wheelchair and pushed me across to the Central for a quick anaesthetic. She cried with laughter. The swelling worsened in the afternoon and I had to resort to asking Papa to pick me up at the bus stop to ferry me home.

Reclined in the bath later. Found solace with Lady Chatterley at about 10:30. Dave B accused me harming my own ankle on purpose to avoid working at Lawn Road.

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Wednesday August 23, 1978

To Lawn Road again. Far too busy painting to sit here with my pen.

A general election is almost on the cards now for October 5, and not October 12. The latter date is too close to Yom Kippur, the day of Atonement, and Jim (Callaghan) wants all the Jewish votes he can lay his hands on. Also, Jeremy Thorpe's day in court has been postponed until the second week in October so that it won't interfere with polling.

Let us hope and pray that Margaret Hilda will be spending her 53rd birthday in number 10, Downing Street. (That will be October 13). Oh, I'm on tip~toe with excitement.

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Tuesday August 22, 1978

Sunny and pleasant. Uncle Jack (Myers) was laid to rest this morning. Hilda, Mabel and Peter represented the entire Wilson Alliance.

Sarah was in great shape today. The doctor listened to her heart yesterday and told her she's suffering from neuralgia. Blimey, I thought you could only get that in your bloody face! This afternoon she actually told me that she fancied me ~ in those exact words. It came when I asked her why she always insists on grabbing hold of me. She replied: "Because I fancy you. That's why". Really funny it was. I don't think she's made such a statement in all the years of our association.

Christine phoned. Her Canadian professional ice~hockey playmate earns £100,000 a year, she says. Good God!

News: President Kenyatta died today in Mombassa. He was a bloody Mau Mau terrorist _______.

Down to Lawn Road with just Daddy to daub buttermilk paint everywhere until the tin ran dry. Home at 10:20. Went for a bath at 12:03.

Auntie Mabel had phoned Mama with a report on the funeral. __________________.

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Monday August 21, 1978

Mrs Christine Newton, Princess Margaret and the Hon Gerald Lascelles are leaping around in their carpet slippers today tearing open birthday cards & presents, and devouring large chunks of iced fruit cake. I haven't laid eyes on Mrs Newton since the day of her marriage in August last year. She may be dead. She may be expecting a multiple birth to fill the bedrooms of her pleasant semi-detached property.

Sarah was taken ill at the YP with pains in her chest (again). She looked awfully pale. At 10 we kicked her off home. She told me that my letter to Delia from Nunwoman, Leaper and Nunwoman Solicitors had Barbara Wheeler wetting herself yesterday.

Met Jacq for lunch at the Ostlers for a few pints and cheeseburgers. The friendly, neolithic bar~tender, who is deaf as a post, always brings the wrong food and drink. Jacq, for instance, had a brandy and Babycham followed by a Gin Fizz ~ and we only ordered lager.

Tonight: with Dad, Dave and Lynn to Lawn Road. I made a start 'emulsioning' the lounge. Worked until 10:30.

John called to see Mama tonight. He moves to Stranraer in two weeks and starts his new job on September 11.

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Sunday August 20, 1978

13th after Trinity

Back with Dad to Lawn Road. Didn't arrange to see Jacqueline Mary and passed a quiet evening at Pine Tops (Merde alors. How boring).

Ode to Pope Paul VI

For Fifteen years you've been the Pope,
I'm afraid for me there is no hope,
For Catholicism isn't my lot,
And religious life is not too hot,
With unmarried priests and posh old churches,
I'd sooner join the parrots on their perches.

However, you died the other week,
and as for me, so to speak,
you're dead, gone and forgotten,
But in a few years time with a bit of luck,
Some nice little Catholic will write a book.

E. Jarvis Thribb


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