Thursday February 10, 1983

 Phoned John. He says he will collect us at 7:30-ish tomorrow. He hasn't been in a pub for a week and a half. Janette was bright and cheerful. I hope they are happy.

I have a headache - a rare thing for me. Crumpets and lashings of tea. Ally is going to 'The Fiddler's' at lunchtime because Shirley is off to Ottawa to be a nanny.

A momentous day at the YP. I is rumoured that 18 journalists from across the YP and EP are to be given the chop. We are all summoned to a meeting next Tuesday to discuss the company affairs. Probably 10 per cent redundancies from across the board. I said gleefully that I would willingly go for redundancy. My colleagues were appalled by my flippancy, but of course they have no idea of my plans. Sarah went to pieces and left at 4 looking drawn and tense. Kathleen says she doesn't want me to leave, but knows Ally and I want to work together saying "why don't you get your names down on the waiting list with breweries?" I nearly dissolved. I suppose I should have said.

I am going to keep a list of things that our own 'Mrs Slocombe' is ignorant of. Two weeks ago it was badgers, and today it was Peter Tatchell, the _____ Militant Tendency Labour candidate for Bermondsey. How can someone who regularly indexes the YP not know Peter Tatchell? It terrifies me.

Home with a throbbing head. Ally on the settee with a white face and eyes like saucers. Not feeling too bright. We grovelled on the rug and contemplated food. Is it eggs again or sausages and beans? It's the latter. Ally, though tired, couldn't resist setting about ironing with her usual gusto. This week she must have ironed everything in the house. Afterwards we watched A.J. Cronin's 'The Citadel'.

We have forgotten most birthdays this year. Tomorrow (Uncle) John celebrates in Lanzarote. I do wish we could have remembered that one.

See on the news that a mass murderer in Muswell Hill has shoved sixteen bodies into a sewer outside his home. A proper good old fashioned murder for a change.

Should I be showing some concern for Prince Andrew's leaning towards the affections of buxom tarts? I do hope that the young chap is having a good time and doesn't intend making one the next Duchess of York. Koo Stark isn't bad.

-=-

Wednesday February 9, 1983

 A letter arrived from Viking Taverns asking us to attend an interview at Hipperholme next Wednesday. My knees rattled together as I went off to my daily labours feeling much excitement. Poor Ally doesn't have any days owing and will have to approach the nauseating Derek. I sat smugly at the YP. I am going whether I get the Viking job or not. I have always vowed to be gone from the YP before my tenth anniversary, and that auspicious event occurs in October. Ally phoned this morning and spent ten minutes trying to persuade the switchboard to put her through. It's now policy to put no calls through to the library before 2pm - except for branch office calls. Such a bore.

To Greenhead's book shop. I'm obsessed with diaries: Leo Amery, Beatrice Webb, Noel Coward, Joseph Goebbels - I want them all. 

Today is National 'No Smoking' Day and to mark the occasion Mrs Slocombe sat blowing out smoke like the Vatican chimney on election night. Sarah's (illegible) is becoming too tiresome.

Tonight we ate baked potatoes with cheese and shrimps and yes, salad again. Goose pimples thinking about our interview. She hasn't told Derek yet.

Old Dame Eva Turner was the subject of 'This Is Your Life'. I escaped to the bathroom to avoid 'Dallas' and Ally took out the iron again. We are like a laundry here.

I don't discuss current affairs and my opinion of them these days, do I? Well, I'm very anti CND, and very anti Andropov, Foot and Haughey. I also fail to see why the kidnapping of a racehorse should be the main item on the 9 o'clock news. The forthcoming nuclear holocaust has been pushed into the background by this Irish 'equestriana'. The missing horse belongs to the Aga Khan. George Bush has been to see the PM. Should Ronald Reagan, 72, die in his sleep he'd be the most powerful chap to walk the earth since Michael Parkinson.

And so to bed.

-=-

Tuesday February 8, 1983

 Snow on the ground though nothing drastic. I was laughing about something and Ally said I look like Jimmy Tarbuck. Oh dear. To the YP. I was summoned to the office of Mr Malcolm Barker _________. He wanted all the details on the Earl of Halifax and his offspring. (The Princess of Wales was last night at Garrowby to attend a charity function). I filled him in with the facts and he said, of the princess, "she is of course a cousin of Halifax, isn't she?" I said yes, but went away frowning. All the top aristocratic families can of course be linked somewhere. I snatched up Burke's (Peerage) and found that HRH and Halifax are 6th cousins both having a common ancestor in a Duke of Gordon, and in the 2nd Earl Grey, prime minister and KG, &c.

Mrs Slocombe came in after lunch and sat frantically humming. She only does this when in a highly nervous state. Her face-lift is planned for March 1. The humming is always without rhythm and completely void of musical sensitivity.

Tonight I asked Ally to take down Burke's from the shelf and I asked her to select a peer at random and then I would find a relationship with that random peer and the Princess of Wales. She selected Earl Nelson. He is descended from the Duke of Marlborough, and so too is Diana. She then picked a Munro baronet, who has an Ogilvy up his tree back in the 13th century. That's enough for me.

Ally stood ironing and we watched a prehistoric science fiction film about worlds colliding. She grumbles that my taste in films isn't up to much and wanted to tune into 'Brookside' Channel 4's answer to 'Crossroads'. She may well win. When it comes to squabbling about the TV I always give in.

Talk about Saturdays party at Waltergarth _______.

Ally, still with iron in hand, says the Princess of Wales isn't as pretty as she once was. She has lost 'that' look. I think I know what she means. The Sun has a large photo of one of Prince Andrew's so-called aquaintances flashing her tits. It's just too much. The paper also states that the prince is to visit Koo Stark in the states very soon. Awful scandal mongering. Princess Margaret is still going about town with Derek Deane, principal dancer of the Royal Ballet, but this doesn't create the storm it would have done 5 years ago. Funny how things change?

Off to bed. Ally is reading Nancy Mitford and I nothing. I lay watching the damp creeping down the walls. Hurry Mr O'Connor (the roofer). We need you.

-=-

Monday February 7, 1983

 Our alarm tinkled its dawn greeting at 6:44. Splashed in the bath and lay contentedly midst the avocado bubbles contemplating my toe-nails. They need clipping. Ally was bouncing around taking in the joys of February.

To the YP with grim determination. Margo says the 'badger' themed postcard was very successful. Worked without a lunch break and didn't get away until 5. Nothing of importance occurred in my absence. George Howard's son is engaged to Derek Nimmo's daughter. Sir John Taylor, the chairman of Timothy Taylor's brewery is to take the title Lord Ingrow (as in toe-nail). Evidently Ingrow is a hamlet close to his native Keighley. 

I attempted to phone Mum all afternoon but the line was constantly engaged and so I reported it to the Post Office. Home for a ploughman's. Sue phoned at 8. They had been to Horton-in-Ribblesdale yesterday. We joked about Peter. I always tell her that she 'has made a rod for her own back', as Mama used to say. Margaret came to see her today and asked 'how's Christopher and the baby?' Sue gently reminded her mother-in-law that she only has the one baby. Mum then phoned . They've been stripping the walls at Waltergarth and have made headway. They have opened up a fireplace ready for Saturday. They have a letter from Uncle Bert __________. He is getting a train to Settle on Saturday. It is going to be a wild 'do'. Bessie phoned. Frank's foot continues to give pain but he's taking anti-biotics, and using a walking stick.

-=-

Sunday February 6, 1983

 Sexagesima

Her Majesty began her reign 31 years ago this day. Cold and dull. We climbed out of bed and over breakfast we discussed visitng Graham and Charlotte (Smith), but it's been obvious all week that Ally doesn't want to go to Teg Down Meads. She says she has to be in the right mood to visit them, and as yet that mood hasn't materialized. So, I stoked up the fire and buried myself beneath the Sunday Express magazine, to the gentle drumming of Andrew's 'dart board' above. The magazine reveals that Princess Michael of Kent takes her cats to bed with her and Prince Michael says it's like sleeping above an abattoir. An Errol Flynn film came on Channel 4 and Ally made rude comments about the late star's supposed legendary musculature. Much giggling. We lunched on chicken portions and sauce out of a tin. At 5 the BMW pulled up and Frank limped out. Not serious though. He has a septic blister. They both looked tired but insisted on driving us to Victoria. A farce really because Frank got hopelessly lost in London and at 7:45 we leapt from the car and found a taxi which took us a matter of 200 yards  to our destination. We left Frank hopping on one foot and waving his goodbyes. The coach left at 8. Worsening snow as we went further north. We phoned Bessie from a motorway service station to let her know we were safely on our way. In Bradford for 1:30. The taxi from the station cost £1.50. To bed.

-=-

Saturday February 5, 1983

 Ally and I went into Winchester after breakfast and after looking at a splendid pine shop we fell into Mr Pitkin's Wine Bar where we consumed a bottle of red and a stilton ploughman's lunch. On these occasions we usually sit watching people through the bottom of our glasses. Young people know how to dress in Winchester. Mr Pitkin himself is a little queer looking, but Ally doesn't think he's dangerous. We spent £5 and then went across to the bank to use the 'Barclaybank' dispenser, but to our horror we discover we have left our (pin) number back at the house. We marched through the bustling town with a dark cloud hanging over us. Saturday afternoon and no money. I wrote a cheque for petrol. Ally found herself queueing on a zebra crossing and an old man banged his disapproval on the car roof and made violent gestures in the direction of Her Majesty's Prison Winchester. We were steaming mad. I wound down the window and gave him a mouthful, at which Ally threatened to abandon the car altogether. We returned to the house and calmed down with a coffee and a 1938 epic on Channel 4. Cheese on toast later and by now we were smiling beside the glow of the log fire. Andrew went out leaving us alone. I haven't seen a newspaper all week. The (Daily) Express has arrived every day, but that doesn't count as a newspaper.

-=-

Friday February 4, 1983

 We were up at a better time today and went out after breakfast to buy tickets for the homeward journey. £6.50 each from London Victoria to Bradford. I'm sure that 10 years ago it wasn't much under a fiver. We walked hand in hand around the streets. I tried to occupy her and prevent her looking in shoe shops but was unsuccessful. She espied a pair of red ones at a ridiculous price and had to have them. 

We sat inspecting three or four pubs until 2:30. These new fangled space invader machines destroy all the character and atmosphere. In the Bakers Arms it was like sitting through a NATO training exercise in Scandinavia. 

We retired to Chillandham Cross at 3 and prepared dinner. Roast beef, potatoes, sprouts, parsnips, Yorkshire puddings, &c. Poor Andrew has lived on soup for the past three days. Whilst I peeled the spuds Ally sat buried beneath the Hampshire Chronicle and exclaimed that Alan Ayckbourn's play 'Taking Steps' is on at the Theatre Royal, Winchester. Without further ado I phoned and booked a couple of tickets for tonight at £3.30 each. After dinner we drove in to town and the theatre. The play was excellent. By no means hilarious, but amusing. Ally didn't like the ending which came upon us rather suddenly. I had been sitting on top of a steaming radiator in the theatre. We made a quick escape, in pouring rain, to the Cart and Horses at Kings Worthy. Back at Chillandham Cross for 11 we watched a bit of TV with Andrew, who is a bit of a character. He frequently disappears to his room at intervals and strange banging noises always coincide with his absences. Ally convinces herself it's a dart board, but I think it might be something else.

-=-

Thursday February 3, 1983

 Lingered in bed until almost noon. The usual full-English followed. Ally looking angelic in her checked dress (bought in Salisbury), little green boots and plum coloured tights. We left at noon for Gloucester, on the M4, I think. Listening to a tape of the Rolling Stones en route. Over the Severn Bridge - magnificent views, and then to my horror, I realised we were in Wales, if only briefly. for the first time. Surprised to see that the people look quite civilised. One Welshman was actually walking a dog on a lead. I was led to believe that the Welsh ate dogs. We passed by one pub but obviously it was closed. To Coleford for 2 and found Mile End easily. Graham and Gill are living in a state of tremendous upheaval, the sitting room the only place fit for habitation. Matthew is growing, looking so very Dixon. Ally nursed the baby and gave him his bottle. Graham arrived home at 6 with a bottle of Emva Cream sherry. Dined on lasagne at 8. Sat with them until 12, and returned to Winchester for 1:30am.

-=-

Wednesday February 2, 1983

 The alarm clock made mournful salutation to the hour of six o'clock. We lay amongst our bed clothes softly moaning and calling into question our sanity. Had our usual breakfast of eggs and bacon, and at 7 we were on the London road which was a stupid thing to do because we met thousands of commuters heading in a similar direction. We crawled into the bustling city by way of Chiswick bridge and on to Hyde Park Corner where we deposited Vanessa (the Triumph) in the underground car park at £4.50 a day. We walked down Oxford Street on a bright and sunny morn. We asked a 16 year-old police constable directions to WC2, and he stood for a full 5 minutes looking vague before eventally waving in the direction of Trafalgar Sq saying 'you want the city'. ______. 

We found St Catherine's House at 10:30. I can think of few things more exciting than rummaging in the files for long lost ancestors. My grandmother Ruth Ellen Upton was indexed as Ruth Allen Upton, born at Lewes, Sussex. The marriage of my great-grandparents John Wilson and Rella Fawbert in 1874 took place  between January and March. It must have been a shotgun wedding because their daughter Frances was born in the following August. I come from a long line of accidents. St Catherine's House was full of scurrying genealogists. We had a break and sat in the bar at the Waldorf Hotel eating beef and ham sandwiches and drinking gin and tonic. Peeping through the palms looking for famous people. Ally once saw Anouska Hempel near Harrods in 1973, and would like to imrpove on this. Refreshed we went on to Alexandra House to look at the deaths, but by 2 we were wilting. We took the tube to Knightsbridge and looked at Harrods, and had a fruit juice. The place seems to have lost its superiority. We walked back along Oxford St without spending a penny and at 5:30 went into a pub to rest our weary legs. The barmaid pulled a face of horror when I asked for a lager and blackcurrant for Ally. Why so bizarre? We sat for an hour to avoid the heavy traffic and set off home on moderately quiet roads. Found ourselvles in Fulham, and then circled back to Chiswick. We stopped to relieve ourselves at a motorway services.

Back for 8:30. Fish fingers.

-=-

Tuesday February 1, 1983

 A restless night listening to the howling wind.

Up late and Andrew was still in his room. He says he isn't going into work because he has an upset stomach. However, he was busily eating a tub of ice cream at 11 last night.

We went to Salisbury arriving at about 12. Sadly, a disappointing place. We looked for a decent pub, and spent an hour marching around the streets peering in dull, empty, unfriendly hostelries. The King William IV had the atmosphere of a crematorium. Eventually we found a pub with a sizeable log fire, and we sat astride a bench warming ourselves. We spent two hours criticising the bar staff. The heavily pregnant landlady looked like a hitman for the Gestapo. 

Afterwards we looked at the shops. I bought a maroon coloured sweater for £6, reduced from £12. Sent ridiculous postcards to everyone including one to the YP featuring a badger. Ally gorgeous in her new green boots. We wandered around the cathedral inspecting the tombs covered in medieval graffiti. A couple of women at our heels insisted on hiccoughing and the noise echoed violently around the Gothic erection.

Back at 8 after looking at the antique shops at Stockbridge. Roast chicken for dinner. Fireside scenes.

-=-

Monday January 31, 1983

 Driving, hideous rain. Ally woke me at 9:30. My snoring was driving her crazy. _____________.

I had a large breakfast. It must have cost the lives of eight pigs. Ally has, yes, boiled eggs. 

We went off at 11 to deliver Frank's briefcase to Barclays Bank in Southampton. We got horribly wet in the process and went on to Habitat. We found an ancient pub wherein the Earl of Cambridge and Lord Scrope of Masham were tried for plotting the death of Henry V in 1414, before Agincourt. The beer was awful. After two pints I was willing and ready to join Lord Scrope on the scaffold. We went, web-footed, to the shops and bought Ally some little green boots for £6 (they were £23 before the sale) and I found some jeans which Ally doesn't like because they're the baggy type which narrow at the ankles. 

At 2:30 back to Chillandham Cross. We contemplated tea and buns at Romsey, but were driven out because of the heavy rain.

Phoned Mum. She and Dad are at Horton-in-Ribblesdale with a Pickford's van. They have been busily cleaning Waltergarth. She says the Crowthers have left the place like a hovel.

Andrew came in covered in grease and oil and we had beefburgers on trays in front of the TV. We don't bother venturing out later. A gale was blowing outside dislodging the glass  in Frank's recently renovated greenhouse. Andrew and I watched a Burt Lancaster Western, and Ally went off to bed.

-=-

Sunday January 30, 1983

 Septuagesima

Breakfast after 10. Ally cannot start the day without a boiled egg. Bessie chat chatting endlessly and I have decided she is nervous about flying to Madeira. It's a bright day but some snow fell. Biting cold. 

They went off to Heathrow  at about 1pm, and as soon as they were out of the house things started to go wrong. The lights in the kitchen and downstairs toilet tripped, and the TV insisted on switching itself on and off and jumping channels. Odd. Phoned Mum and Dad. Maria is down with the children and John took them to Ash Tree Cottage yesterday.

Dinner wasn't a success. The sauce was like glue. At 9 we went to the Bush at Ovington for a couple of hours. __________. Back at 10:30 for mounds of toasted currant teacakes and coffee. Bed at 11:30.

-=-

Saturday January 29, 1983

 We were up at about 9:30 awakened by all the activity. Bessie is an early riser and is up at 6:30 most mornings. Whilst we were gobbling toast she came in from her hairdresser at Alresford. She sat opposite me and I could see blue dye in her scalp. She looks very 'Thatcherish'. 

We took the Triumph Acclaim and sped off to Alresford for the afternoon. We left the car on a muddy lane and walked on a path by the river full of mallards and one regal, solitary swan.Some children in fluorescent wellies splashed by and we wallowed in the mud to allow an old army colonel with a red face, and walking stick to pass by. Hampshire is wonderfully picturesque. We pressed our noses up against shop windows and took a shine to a Chinese vase, circa 1740, on sale at £400. Ally bought a pair of faded jeans in a sale for £10. Looked at watercolours too. A nice one of a pebble beach with a boat. 

To the Horse and Groom (to avoid the drizzle) and spent three hours sitting in the bar. Back to Chillandham Cross slightly pissed. Frank took us to Margarita's pizzeria in Southampton at 7:30. We queued to get in and Bessie looked downcast, but inside it was noisy and typically Italian. (We have been before, of course). Frank and Bessie had veal, and Ally and I had lasagne and pizza. Back for 10:30, full and quite knackered. Frank is having trouble settling Cecil Ferguson's will. His new wife is hanging on to everything __________. To bed by 12.

-=-

Friday January 28, 1983

 Full Moon

Fun at the YP. I didn't tell anyone that I'm taking a holiday next week until after 3 and they all looked on in horror. Carol and poor Margo will be the only ones working on Monday. I couldn't hide my grin. I think I must have a terrible sadistic streak. 

Went outside at 5:10 and Frank, in his BMW arrived, with Ally (and she sat up in the front with her Dad because travelling in the back makes her queasy). With Radio 4 blasting and sitting in the back I couldn't listen in on any of the conversation taking place. He insisted on channel jumping when I was in the middle of a concerto or interview. Count Nikolai Tolstoy insists on referring to 'Princess Diana'. Heard the BBC news about eight times. The water workers are continuing to reject the latest pay offer. Billy Fury, an ageing pop idol from 1961, has died from a heart attack. He sang something called 'Halfway to Paradise'.

We arrived at Chillandham Cross at 9 o'clock, and Bessie was waiting with a dinner of pork chops which we had on trays on our knees before the log fire. Andrew passed his motor cycle test today, but didn't talk about it. 

We went off to bed quite early because Ally is still sniffing and giving great chesty coughs. Graham was absent.

-=-

Thursday January 27, 1983

 Blustery to say the least. Late up - it was 7:30.  Just toast. Ally looks better but no recovered by any means and she returned to bed when I left at 8.

Busy day. Mrs Slocombe 's 'what is this?'  badger sensation is sweeping the office. Photostats of badgers in various poses are appearing all over the newsroom. 

At lunchtime I bought Ally some tiny earrings with green stones - 99p. It's the thought that counts. Spoke to Ally on the blower. Mum and Dad are setting out to Pudsey to see Auntie Mabel and then Auntie Hilda. Ally says that Dad is like a cat on hot bricks in the house. A caged animal. (Perhaps a badger?). I hope he'll be kept busy up at Horton.

Tonight we ate corn on the cob and left over lasagne and I attacked a blue Stilton cheese. We browsed through Mum's catalogue and picked out over £100 worth of gear. Top of the Pops and the ghastly Russell Harty. Ally phoned Bessie. Cousin Beverley is expecting a second child. She and Tony (Tebby) have a daughter, Zoë. Graham and Gill have bought a golden retriever of which they will take possession next month. 

Mum and Dad return from Guiseley. ________________. Mum and Dad look like fatted pigs, and worry me greatly. We sat laughing at the way Mum and Dad always go up to bed with four or five newspapers, and they read every page. The rustling goes on far into the night.

-=-

Wednesday January 26, 1983

 A Spring-like day. I do not think that winter is going to materialise this year. Up at 6:30. The traffic outside acts as an alarm clock. Poor Ally is streaming and so confined to barracks. Boiled eggs and toast. Kisses goodbye at 8. I could have given it a miss myself. Bookless to the YP. 

News: 73,000,000 people are having to boil water. President Reagan is the most unpopular president since Jimmy Carter. Princess Margaret is in love with a spotty, teenage ballet dancer. Lord Citrine, who led the TUC back in Neolithic times has died at the age of 95.

Fresh air in the park. Phoned Ally who is missing me. She went back to bed with her book. Mum and Dad were up and off at 9:30. I hid behind a filing cabinet until it was decently possible to make good my escape.

Lasagne with Ally. ___________. She went to bed after Coronation Street and I sat alone. (Mum and Dad were dining with Sue and Pete and going to John's afterwards). 

At 8:10 watched a programme about exiled royalty with Anthony Holden, biographer of the Prince of Wales. He interviewed King Umberto of Italy, who looked ghastly, and a 'Scottish sociologist' Princess Margarita of Rumania, who is 50th in line to the British throne and a goddaughter of the Duke of Edinburgh. She somewhat shyly said she calls the Queen 'Aunt Lilibet', and then promptly changed the subject. 

To avoid Michael Foot and a Labour party political broadcast I went up to bed at 9 and found Ally gasping and sweating. I turned off our bedroom radiator and cheered her up and she is dangling her hot legs on me as I write this. _____________. Found an Alastair Maclean book that I didn't know I had.

-=-

Tuesday January 25, 1983

My grandfather was born 82 years ago today. He always believed he was born the day Queen Victoria died. He was wrong. I've probably told you this before.

No Kathleen at the YP today. She is burying her 'senior' aunt. It was a good day for it. I went out at lunchtime for my daily constitutional in Park Square. A chimney on St Paul's House blew off in the gales last month.

Phoned Ally. She posted our application form to Chef & Brewer at Hipperholme. Such fun. I was at work feeling refreshed and full of glee at the thought of escape. Like a light at the end of the tunnel. Left at 4:15 in daylight and stood for half an hour waiting for a bloody 72 bus which defeated the whole object of my leaving early.

Mum had made chicken stew. They looked at our recent photographs (just arrived). Some good ones of Frances in her red woolly dress.

Ally's cold has worsened and at 8:30 I packed her off to bed with orange juice and paracetamol tablets. I finish S. Birmingham's biography of the Duchess of Windsor. Watched 'The Creature from the Black Lagoon' and Russell Harty at a Burn's Night party which was flat as a fart. Dad and I sat pulling it to pieces. Watched the news. We are in the middle of a national water strike, you know. A first. What did Marie Antoinette say? 'Let them drink Coke'. Bed at 11. Ally hot and asleep.

-=-

Monday January 24, 1983

 Was up at 7 filling in an application form. Why will I be a success in a pub? How can I answer that one? Toast and tea.

I have decided that Malcolm Barker is like Caligula, only more unpredictable. Read the Sunday papers and of Marcia Falkender's account of (Harold) Wilson's resignation in '76. I am suspicious of why he went so suddenly. We haven't heard the last of it. Also read the serialised journals of the Shah of Iran's last ambassador to the UK 1976-77 (in the Sunday papers). Love diaries.

YP: Mrs Slocombe was filing photos of wildlife and held up a photo exclaiming: 'what beast is this unidentified, small and furry animal?' It was a badger. A badger. She hadn't a clue. 

Tonight: Ally's nose glowed like a beacon. She's starting with a cold. Hilda phoned Mama. Karen is pregnant and due in August. Bessie phoned. Penny Browne had a son yesterday. We had fish and chips, and then later on had cheese on toast.  Watched TV until after 12. Mum and Dad sat looking a plumbing brochures for sinks for their Waltergarth bedrooms and for a microwave oven - posh. To bed at 12:30. Poor Ally isn't 100 per cent.

-=-

Sunday January 23, 1983

 3rd Sunday after Epiphany

Communal breakfast. Papa went out and bought a News of the World which was full of lies and nonsense about the Princess of Wales. Sickening.

John phoned and came over with Janette at 3 and we all had drinks while the chicken cooked in its booze-filled pot (yes, I put far too much plonk in with the bird). We ate at 6.

________. Janette was drinking Pernod, and the lethal spirit  'opened her up' so to speak. Dad and I sat watching Shakespeare's 'Richard III' and Janette related her life story to Mum and Ally. I cannot decide which was the most dramatic - the War of the Roses or the War of the Rhodeses (of Lochans, Stranraer). John left at 7:30 for four hours to play Squash with Chris and Pete M. It's disturbing to learn that Chris now listens to tapes of Richard Clayderman, a somewhat unwholesome French pianist, with Roddy Llewellyn looks. Dubious to say the least.

_______. Mum sat quietly nodding throughout. John came back at 11:30 in the ice and took Janette home. ____________.

-=-

Saturday January 22, 1983

 Bright and sunny. We had breakfast at 10 and left Mum and Dad washing up whilst we took a bus to the interchange and had our photos taken in a rabbit hutch for our brewery application. 

At 12 we went with Mum and Dad in the Renault to Settle. Only an hours drive. We had a few drinks in a pub there and then went to Fred's (a dingy bar full of people straight out of the job centre). We drank and watched the 2:30 (race) from Kempton Park, and staggered out to look at the antique shops afterwards. Mum bought an old jug for 25p. She's like Christina Onassis at times. They took us on to Horton-in-Ribblesdale but it was growing dark. I was impressed by my first view of Waltergarth, and feel sure that they'll love the place. Horton is smaller than I expected and the bungalow nestles in a hollow close to the river. They are pleased as Punch with the place.

At 5:30 we went on to the posh Royal Hotel in Settle - mock Jacobean - for basket meals. The staff seem obsessed with us and every time we look up from our baskets we see them talking about us. Mum laughed and commented that alcoholics always suffer from paranoia. Dad and I had rabbit pie, Ally scampi, and Mum steak and kidney pie. Left at 8:30 all jolly and contented. Back for 9:30. Terry Wogan was interviewing the refreshing Cilla Black. Ally went up to bed, but in the middle of the night she leapt from bed and was violently sick in the bathroom. Poor darling. I suspect that the sinister bar staff at the Royal Hotel have slipped her something horrid.

--=-

Friday January 21, 1983

 The morning cock did thrice make salutation to the morn. We crept around like venomous things to avoid arousing Mama and Papa from their slumbers. A letter (nay, application form) comes from Chef & Brewer (Webster's really) and we laugh at the great wad of questions. We are applying to manage a pub and not for the director generalship of the CIA. They want recent photographs of us.

YP was tolerable because I have a feeling I am not long for that place.

Mum and Dad went off to Lynn's. She's having new carpets fitted in the attic. It all sounds very affluent. David Baker is Guiseley's answer to King Louis XIV.

Ally and I had fish finger sandwiches and watched a programme on the BBC about the Castle of Mey. Who will get this pile after HM (the Queen Mother) passes into the bossom of the Lord? Perhaps one of Margaret's lot, or Princess Anne. Caithness is a suitably remote spot for Mark Phillips's incarceration. 

We contemplated going to bed but were distracted. The Shirley Conran novel has given Ally ideas I'm sure. 

Mum and Dad returned after 10. The Bakers carpets are oatmeal. 

We are told that we will have no water next week. We'll all look like urchins. And speaking of urchins Michael Fagan has been released from his asylum imprisonment after only six weeks. Our poor Sovereign Lady.

-=-