Saturday December 20, 1980

 _. To Bingley Christmas shopping this morning. 

Lazenby's party at Park Rd. Ally and I began at the New Inn, packed with juveniles covered in shaving foam and behaving like third formers. Come to think of it, I'm usually covered in shaving foam and behaving like a third former which means a) I'm getting old, b) I'm out of shaving foam, or c) I've stopped shaving.

Previously in the day Ally and I joined Mama and Papa at Sue and Pete's for drinks at West End Terrace. [I have made a hash of today's journal entry. It's all back to front and upside down].

Needless to say, Lazenby's party was tremendous. Not as packed as last year, but excellent all the same. Bob Schofield insisted on bringing his dog, and a huge joint of roast beef in garlic appeared. Ally was certain that an old friend of mine [who I only tend to see once a year on this festive night] is in fact the Yorkshire Ripper. Jack [the Ripper] has done for Yorkshire what Leonard Cheshire did for Nagasaki.

Home at almost 8am. Ally was exhausted, even tearful.

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Friday December 19, 1980

 _. Over to Ally's at 6 and straight out to Mamma Mia's pizzeria on Manningham Lane for a naughty Italian dinner [naughty, owing to the fact we have little spare money, and Ally is writing cheques like no tomorrow]. After piping hot lasagne we went on to the Bod and then back to Rue Club for the night. Is Yuletide here?

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Thursday December 18, 1980

 _. Pay day. To the Drop with Ally and then the New Inn where we 'accidentally' meet Sue, Audrey and the diminutive Christine. Quite boozed up. At home for 11. Jim and Margaret and Lynn [no Dave, he was out working] were making merry. Lynn expands daily. Spend hours persuading Mum and Dad to take a pub, but somehow I cannot see it coming off. Is Papa 'cut out' for the pub landlord role? Methinks he is far too argumentative and intolerant for such a vital PR existence.

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Wednesday December 17, 1980

 _. Nothing to report. Didn't see Ally. I miss her presence. Three days apart, in love, is a long time. 

Still pouring over Parson Woodforde's journal, made all the more interesting by Papa who says he's visited many of the Norfolk villages mentioned by Woodforde. Dad says that some of the pubs visited by Woodforde are still in existence. Also read Hardy. [The Book is upstairs and I can't be bothered going up for it to tell you the title].

Later, upstairs: The book is 'Desperate Remedies'.

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Tuesday December 16, 1980

 _. Warm day for the time of year, don't you think? Certain organs allegedly reporting the meteorological office say we are in for a 'White Christmas'. The last serious white Christmas was in 1970. John and I were doing paper rounds for James Bywater at the Quality House newsagent. We both fell off our bicycles in the ice on Hillway, Tranmere Park. Mum, that year, had a large party at which both Wilson and Rhodes relatives flocked. It was one of the last times I saw my cousin Sam. Uncle Harry and Mavis split up in February '71, and I haven't laid eyes on her since. Where is Uncle H? I really do miss him.

Busy day. No Kathleen. Sarah took a half-day. Spent the afternoon typing up the files of Foot's Shadow Cabinet appointments. I shudder at the thought of what damage this mob could do if they ever found office. Anthony Wedgwood Benn is conspicuous by his absence and I'm very easy uneasy about this. Like a phoenix he'll rise again. Most of Foot's appointments appear to be Welshmen. Will they LEEK some of Labour's secrets to the press? [Geddit?]

Spoke twice to Ally after work. I phoned her at 7 and she rang me at 8:30 to tell me that she had just heard on the radio that the Prince of Wales has taken up residence at Highgrove. At the mention of Buckingham Palace poor Ally almost fainted with expectancy thinking it was the engagement to Lady D.F.S.

Sat with Mum until Dad came in off duty at 10. She is sick and tired of his unsociable hours of work. They both pray for September 1982, when he retires. 

In the news: 48 million IRA prisoners in Ulster are starving themselves to death because Mrs Thatcher has refused to give them the status of political prisoners. Let them die, that's what I say. The penultimate Duke of Portland has died only to be succeeded by his 83 year-old kid brother. Not a healthy situation.

To bed at 11:45 with Thomas Hardy.

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