Thursday December 31, 1981

 Fried breakfast [again]. Joined Graham and Gill at the New Inn at Easton for a lunchtime drink. Had cheese toasties and lungs full of cigarette smoke. Felt horrible. Caught sight of myself in a mirror in the gents and reeled with horror. My features white and baggy. My eyes bloodshot. The general effect is reminiscent of Robert Mitchum, and he must be 67.

On to Graham and Gill's at Chandler's Ford for coffee and back to Chillandham Cross at 5. Had grilled steak and salad. Frank and Bessie went off reluctantly to a Rotary Club dinner dance at 7 - they usually see in the New Year in bed. Bessie told us that when they lived in Wallasey in the 50s they'd lay in bed listening to the ships at Liverpool hooting and booming in celebration of the New Year. Romantic.

Ally & Gill

At 8 we went back to Graham and Gill's at Chandler's Ford. I had a whisky, and Ally had something Italian and wet and we went, the four of us, to Midge and Eugene's hideous pub at Southampton. Ally glorious in her pink tulip frock. The pub was crowded and hot, but at least it was lively. Streamers, silly hats and that sort of thing. Midge, bedecked like the Trafalgar Square Christmas tree, came over and made us feel like VIP guests. Joined by Barbara and Mel. He was very thin, skeletal, and supposedly on the wagon. Barbara planted a kiss of my cheek leaving an impression of her lipstick across my face. She prodded me and said that marriage has turned me into a fat slob. 

Frank, Bessie, me, Ally, Graham.

On at 10 to collect Peter and Dee Lynn. To the deserted Plough Inn at Itchen Abbas. Empty but for a grey old lady throwing darts. The landlord inspected us through narrowed eyes. A dismal place, and tonight especially gruesome. We left and went to the New Inn at Easton. Not much better here. The drunk locals were huddled at one end of the bar and we stood at the other. The landlady, clad in a fur coat, was slumped over the bar bemoaning the fact that her 'after hours' party was in ruins. We decided enough was enough and left at 11:45 and bombed back to Kings Worthy rectory, just in time for the chimes of the clock heralding the New Year. Did the usual 'auld langs ayne' routine. I stood with Dee holding baby Patrick. We drank punch and Bell's whisky.

My voice disappeared completely. Florence gave me spoon after spoon of cough mixture. Much of the conversation was rugby union based. Graham tried to persuade us to visit the nearby fish farm where a wild party hosted by the eccentric Michael Wilkinson-Warburton was in full swing, but Gill and Ally were strongly opposed to the idea.

Back to Chillandham Cross at some fortgotten time.

-=-

-=-