Thursday April 14, 1983

 We didn't want to get out of bed but finally did at 7:20. I have a retirement card on the doormat from Stephanie Ferguson which is thoughtful of her. When she leaves in June she is to have a marquee on her lawn at Leathley. She missed the party on Saturday because she went to the Grand National and was late back. I performed my morning ritual of hunting the elusive Daily Telegraph. I said goodbye to Ally who was standing at her bus stop with the bespectacled gent who plasters broken bones at the BRI. I arrived home to hear banging and much activity next door and went out to find Sammy (Greenwood) and the man from the corner shop battering at the Mrs Greenwood's door. I supplied a hammer and a policeman joined us. Mrs Greenwood was in a heap behind the door and the heat in her house was unbearable. The poor old girl had been there since 4:30pm yesterday when she went to the door to collect her evening newspaper and had been laid out waiting for help for 17 hours. Her kettle had boiled dry and her gas fire was throwing out tremendous heat. She was lucky not have burned the house down. It's dreadful to think she was spending the night in such a state just behind the wall from us. Poor old girl. She really is too old to live alone. Sammy, clutching his chest after they took her away in an ambulance. It hasn't helped his angina. The street buzzed with excitement. Old ladies love an ambulance, don't they? I sat and wrote two letters. One to Whitbread's and ther other to John & Sheila just to tell them of our changed circumstances. I baked a Victoria sandwich cake and put butter icing through the middle and icing on top. I am never out of the kitchen. Ally phoned and asked me to make a lasagne, which I did without question. She came in at 5 and we ate heartily. Afterwards, I spied a fat, red faced man marching into Club St followed by a pack of ladies. He was wearing a prominent red rosette and we immediately presumed that he is the ghastly municipal Labour candidate. He was knocking on every door bold as brass. Without further ado we ran upstairs and lay giggling on the bed until they went away. But first he stuffed some Labour propaganda through the door. Reading it I see that the Labour party is planning to create Heaven on earth. Club Street must be red, we decided, because Fat Man was received like Alexander the Great by all the old ladies, who littered his path with garlands and showered him and his entourage with all manner of affections. To bed early, well 9:30. Ally is done in.

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