Wrote to Ally and phoned. She is busily knitting. Cousin Tricia is her current victim, or rather her baby is. I phoned her again when Mum and Dad went to see Sue and Pete.
I went to bed with Robinson Crusoe. I get the impression that he and Man Friday were on the peculiar side.
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_.Sun came and melted the snow. Britian is now knee deep in rotting, dead lambs, all caught unaware in the snow surprise of the weekend. We are also swimming in something else. I'm talking about canine excretia. Alighting from my bus this evening I proceeded to skid and slide, like a male version of Robin Cousins, in the numerous dog turds evenly spread over my homeward route. Britain is indeed in decline. The BBC 9 o'clock news failed to mention that Princess Michael of Kent had left hopsital with her newly named daughter. Kenneth Kendall went on and on about Bobby Sands [and the battle for his 'Slimmer of the Year' title], and Ringo Starr getting married, and listing endless boring Scottish League football results, but not one mention of the royal infant. She's been named Gabriella Marina Alexandra Ophelia Windsor. Gabriella is a good European RC name, and one of the baby's Austrian ancestors. Marina is for her grandmother the late Duchess of Kent. Alexandra for her aunt Mrs Ogilvy. Ophelia for the character in Hamlet who went bonkers and drowned herself bedecked in garlands. The baby was of course born on Shakespeare's birthday. We are told, in the press and not of course by the BBC, that the Lady Gabriella, eighteenth in line of succession to the throne, is to be known as 'Ella'. I'm unhappy with this. Sounds very un-English and calls to mind the wobbly, and collapsed 'Ruritarian' thrones of Europe.
The YP was a drag. Spoke to Ally. She had been in Bradford looking at baby clothes. Phoned her at 8:30 and our chat ended on a note of discord on the subject of money. Why is money the cause of all our problems? Why do I ask such stupid questions? Appropriately enough, the Monday film on the telly is 'For a Few Dollars More' - Clint Eastwood again.
Mum and Dad had been to the bank, and to the valuers, Oliver, Kitchen & Flynn, who are visiting the Stonehouse this week. At £75,000 I cannot see any difficulties.
To bed at 12.
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_. Low Sunday
I eventually went outside and shifted a bit of snow just to let the neighbours know we aren't taking Alaskan citizenship. Ate beans and eggs and things for breakfast, and tolerate Sir Jimmy Savile, KG, OBE, on the radio. [No doubt he'll soon be Lord Savile of Stoke Mandeville].
Ally made herself beautiful - a rhapsody in blue no less, and at 3:30 we climbed into her coughing little French car, and onward to Guiseley. Snow has devastated the Pine Tops garden. Like a Mount St Helen's eruption. Conifers flattened, daffs squashed, &c.
Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Mum and Dad went with David B at 7 to the Stonehouse Inn, where a deal was made. George is selling the inn for £75,000 and it's now down to Mum and Dad to come up with the cash. Valuers and bankers on the case. Ally and I, laden with sherry, went on to Burley and sat holding the baby for a couple of hours. Home at 11. Pub talk. Too exciting.
Ally leapt into my bed. I've been reading Robinson Crusoe.
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_. Club Street has disappeared beneath a white blanket of snow which persists throughout the day. We ventured outside and walked down the middle of the road [the paths being too heaped with snow] to Morrison's to buy minced beef and other vital provisions. Ally looked a belter in her blue wellies. All was well until a large, fat rat emerged from a snowdrift and ran across our path. Ally took off like Mary Peters at the 1972 Olympics. Back at Club Street for 3:15. Ally made one of her delicious lasagnes. It is a dish that I'm sure would convince any IRA hunger striker to change his mind. Ally and her Prestige Crock-pot could be the saviour of Anglo-Irish relations.
A marathon tv session with a box of Mr Kipling's French Fancies. Randolph Scott in two westerns, Dennis Weaver in a Hawaiian-themed thriller. Shelley Winters in a ludicrous 'black magic' type thriller, and then a Hammer Dracula epic.
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_. Snow fell over night throwing everything into chaos. Sat giggling with Ally at breakfast watching the snow swirling across the Bradford landscape. One wouldn't believe it's May next week. To the YP. Phoned Mummy. She expressed surprise that I wouldn't be going home tonight, but I do want to spend the weekend at Club St. Women! Only days ago I was treating home like a hotel.
I escaped the office at 4 to battle on to Bradford on a smoke-filled omnibus. Didn't get to Club St until after 6. Had a huge dinner, steak and kidney with dumplings. A romantic evening looking out at the falling snow. Snuggled down watching our tiny, black and white, and illegal tv.
News: Sick of hearing about the IRA hunger striking MP Bobby Sands. _________.
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_. St George's Day
Harry, England and St George, and all that. Spent an hour in Leeds Market looking for suitable pork chops and new potatoes. I approached a little red faced woman on a veg stall and asked for some spuds. 'What quantity?' Floundering, I came away with 2lb.
Whilst Lord Cambridge was being planted at Frogmore at 2:30 Princess Michael of Kent was giving birth to a daughter at St Mary's Hospital, Paddington. What we have lost in the Cambridges we have gained in the Kents. No names for the latest Windsor have been announced as yet, but Marina is bound to feature in there, and your Elizabeths, Victorias, Alexandras and Dianas are inevitable.
To Lidget Green at 5:30. Dined with darling Ally. Dave G phoned. He wants us to accompany him and the lads to Steak Kebabs on May 2, but I say this is out of the question.
Mum phoned. Our wedding invitations have arrived at Rhodeses stationers.
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_. Mum took one of her monthly swings at me which I took with my usual bluffness and ill-humour. She objected to the way Ally and I had 'moved into' Pine Tops for the Easter weekend and had treated the place 'like a hotel'. How on earth can you treat your own home like a hotel? I sat brooding in front of the TV. The David Lloyd George series has improved with age.
I took to my bed with Burke's Peerage. Frances was a very popular name until the early years of this century and was abundant in the 17th and 18th centuries, but has since given way to Eileen, Brenda and Yvonne.
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Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, &c Still dull outside. Who cares? Our alarm clock is on the blink and refuses to sound off. Samuel laid patiently...
