Thursday July 15, 1982

 Hot, yet dull. Met Dad at the Leeds Police HQ and we climbed across three building sites to get to Len's Bar. Leeds is now like London after the Great Fire. Erections springing up everywhere. But once erected these towering properties stand empty for seven years. We sat in the gloom on a Chesterfield sofa sinking Stone's bitter. It seems most odd to me that Dad should be attending a 'trainer' or 'refresher' course when he has only 34 and a half days remaining in the [police] force. That's bureaucracy for you. Talked about John. Dad is very choked about the divorce. When, half way through a pint, he talked about 'the collapse of family life and all we hold dear' he was reminiscent of Dr Runcie. God bless Dad. He is such a good man. I love him more and more. I hated him so when I was younger. At the time I convinced myself that my loathing of the man was not because of adolescence. All youths fall out with parents, but always thought my case was different. Sitting in Len's we seemed so close. He has such humour and is eccentric. I told him we were going to see the [Rolling] Stones and took out his pocket book and made a note of it. YP pissed. 

David and Jean [Watts] came back this evening. By 10:30 we had hot water restored. Praise be to God.

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Wednesday July 14, 1982

 Thundery. Felt grotty all day. Headache which is peculiar. I only ever get pains of this nature after a night on the piss.

Further shocking details of the Queen's recent ordeal. Her Majesty at one point telephoned the police office at Buck House and discreetly asked for assistance so not to disturb her 'guest', only to wait for ten minutes without response. I think that Lord Maclean [Lord Chamberlain], William Whitelaw [Home Secretary] and the Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard should all be sacked. A dreadful state of affairs when the Sovereign is potentially murdered in her bed by a man who walked in from the street unchallenged. I grow more annoyed at this as the days go by. I bet the Duke [of Edinburgh] is livid.

Home to Piglet at 5. [Left the YP at 4 because of Ray Buckton and Sid Weighell -- a future Viscount Weighell, CH]. Saw Dad on Wellington Street. He had been square-bashing at Wakefield.

Ally was very wet, walking home in a storm. Audrey, the Citroen, went to the knacker's yard this afternoon. We got £100 for her, and we're well rid. No more French cars for us. In fact nothing French will ever enter my house, with the exception of Brigitte Bardot. Certainly nothing mechanical.

Mum, Dad and John came at 7:30 to deliver a pile of stone. Sat until 9 talking about palace intruders. Frank phoned. They are back from Corfu. We went to bed at 9:30 with a big, glossy Diana book.

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Tuesday July 13, 1982

Tree: with my name restored

 I'm peeved about my 'royal baby' family tree which is now a glorious technicolour poster hanging in Malcolm Barker's office. Geoff Hemingway came over at 12 and asked me to accompany him to view the poster. My name is notoriously absent from the impressive genealogical table, and we both exclaimed at the cheek of it. They haven't even had the decency to bring me a copy. Geoff filled in a lineage form for me and under his breath referred to Mark Parry as a 'bastard'. Malcolm offered me £50, but that was three weeks ago, and nothing has materialised. Good old Geoff. He does look after my interests.

More deep sea diving tonight. Mr & Mrs Watts returned to inspect the heating. No developments. Phoned Mum. John has seen a house in Yeadon within a stone's throw of eight pubs. Saw Lord Home on the telly.

Bed at 11.

-=-

Monday July 12, 1982

 Bank Holiday in Ireland

We have had no hot water since the meeting of the Jacques Cousteau fan club here on Saturday. Tonight David and Jean Watts came here [he's an engineer friend from the AHA], and he sat, head in hands, baffling over our extensive water pipes. They went away to pick berries on [Otley] Chevin puzzling over our system. We were left without hot water but bathed all the same using the emergency heater. Sod it.

Unbelievably, an intruder broke into Buckingham Palace in the early hours of Friday morning and made his way to the Queen's bedchamber where he engaged Her Majesty in conversation for ten minutes before he was apprehended. It is disgusting and appalling. The intruder, Michael Fagan, asked the Queen for a cigarette and under the pretext of going to find a Woodbine she managed to summon assistance. Thank goodness she remained calm. Eventually, a chamber maid entered upon the scene and exclaimed: 'Bloody Hell, Ma'am, what's he doin' in here?' Heads really should roll. Mrs Thatcher visited the Queen this afternoon. HM is said to be angry. I'd be stark, raving furious. What's the bloody point employing guards to stand with fixed bayonets at the palace gates when the riff raff of London's east end is allowed to roam the palace corridors at will? 

Bed at 10:30.

-=-

Sunday July 11, 1982

 5th Sunday after Trinity

Horrid day. For much of the morning Ally strutted around like Benito Mussolini giving orders right, left and centre. I was reduced to the role of a serf and was sent to the garden to smash an old sink, much to the amusement of Miss Whincup, sitting in a chair in her garden. Went to the tip. Ally was much happier later. It's the heat that turned her into a fascist dictator. We took a quick constitutional 'around the block'. It's horrific to view the squalor which is so close to our own doorstep. 

Later I sat with Ken Follett, and Ally sat looking at me. Up to bed, then down again for lasagne. Watched the World Cup final. Italy beat West Germany. It was worth watching just to see President Pertini leaping around in the royal box. Bed again.

-=-

Saturday July 10, 1982

 A family gathering. Mum, Dad and John came at 12, and Sue, Pete, and Christopher followed at 12:30. John, with the help of Dad, plastered a wall, and then while boxing in some pipes they fractured one, and had to do some some sub-aqua joinery and plumbing. Welding equipment was sent for and the murky waters eventually subsided. The ladies, oblivious to the life and death underwater struggle, were cooing over Christopher in the garden. I passed glasses of sherry to them through the window. Beer flowed like Bacchanalia too. Sue, Pete and the adonis baby left after the hapless workforce had sent the central heating into oblivion. Christopher is blond and blue eyed and raring to make a bolt for it. He is one of the healthiest, robust specimens I have ever seen. We ate salad sandwiches and swilled ale and coffee and watched someting called 'The Professionals' on ITV.

-=-