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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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