Wednesday March 2, 1983

 Some rain. I went out in a pair of striped blue canvas shoes which looked ridiculous on a damp Lidget Green morn. [Large deletion]. At lunchtime I telephoned Mum. They are decorating at Horton. She bubbled as usual and hadn't heard from any of the others. Some of my siblings don't know how to dial.

All whispers at the YP. So many people say they are going. Spoke to one in EP features, and one EP reporter says he wants to open a book shop. Mrs Slocombe is back with her face sewn up and looks like something from a Boris Karloff  movie.

Omelettes and beans at 6. We sat on the settee for three hours. _________. After 'Dallas' Ally took to her bed. The news was read by John Humphrys who I always think looks like a ventriloquist's dummy. The Queen is enduring floods and tornadoes  with the Reagans in Santa Barbara. One of President Reagan's aides has described HM as 'a trooper' for sticking to the schedule despite the weather. It will take more than a bit of inclement weather to deter the Queen from sticking to her agenda.

I have been thinking about Timothy Taylor's. Will my redundancy money be enough to cover a tenancy? We shall have to go along and see Lord Ingrow. For two weeks we have thought of little else than pubs and our future.

A programme on TV about 'old wives tales' was interesting. Cows do not sit down when it is about to rain.

Bed at 10 o'clock.

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Tuesday March 1, 1983

 St David's Day

Spring is in the air. I left Ally at 8 laden with piles of wet washing. Sunshine today. Mrs Slocombe is off having cosmetic surgery and no doubt be back tomorrow looking like Nancy Reagan. Sarah was glum for most of the day. _________. I went to look for (birthday) presents for Lynn and Dave at lunchtime and found myself in a junk shop. Junk immediately springs to mind when one thinks of the Bakers. They love old retro stuff. Phoned Ally and spoke in sweet whispers.

Home: sandwiches. Ally ironed. I brewed lager and looked at some stagnant wine. The lemon wine has been in the demijohn since January, 1982.

News: The Queen's tour of the USA has been messed up by rotten weather. The storms are so bad that the Royal Yacht is incapacitated. How many US presidents has the Queen seen off in her reign? I think that Ronald Reagan is her eighth. I can never remember whether Truman or Eisenhower came first. You cannot beat the coninuity of monarchy, can you? Nancy Reagan might be the bees knees in 1983 but where will she be in 1989? The Queen must have a good laugh about the comings and goings over the Atlantic. The miners are now coming out in force now that the water workers are nicely back. ______.

Wrote to Sam Smith's brewery at Tadcaster and squabbled with Ally about it. I'm an awkward writer when not writing foolishly or passionately. Watched a play on the BBC. Bed at 10:40.

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Monday February 28, 1983

 At the YP Betty phoned from photo sales to say the pic of my grandparents is ready and I went down with a cheque. She said I look very much like my grandmother. Nobody has ever said that before. Left the ofice at 4 and went to the National Coach Station and bought a couple of tickets for Saturday's visit to Stockport. Another cheque. £5.50 this time. I queued for ten minutes behind a guy buying a return ticket to Plymouth only to find he was £2 short and had to go away empty handed grumbling into his anorak. 

Dined on avocado and prawns and breast of lamb. I was home an hour early and we met on the doorstep in a grip of passion.  'Coronation Street' and 'Panorama'. Poor old Sir Keith Joseph is far from 100 per cent.

The Queen is taking the USA by storm. Her Majesty's first tour of the west coast. Blimey, I haven't mentioned Peter Tatchell, have I? Last Thursday he suffered defeat in the election at Bermondsey to the Liberal SDP candidate. (Michael) Foot is done for. Labour is dead and David Steel will be leader of the opposition in May, 1984. That is if Roy Jenkins doesn't get his way. Perhaps I should say Lord Jenkins, OM, CH, GCVO, PC.

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Sunday February 27, 1983

 2nd Sunday in Lent. Full Moon.

Christopher.

Up at about 10 for a full-English breakfast. Mum listens to Radio 4, or something equally obscure and we sat tackling our eggs and bacon to the strains of 'I Know That My Redeemer Liveth' which Dad says was his father's favourite music. I sat outside sketching Waltergarth to illustrate their brochure. They seemed to like it. A cloud hung over Peny-ghent (or pen-y-ghent?), but it doesn't stop the party of Japanese hikers with great yellow back packs assaulting the south face. We left at 11:30 and went to Yeadon where Dad bought bits of wire at a DIY store. Some members of the cast of Emmerdale Farm were buying tins of gloss paint. On to Sue's. Today is Christopher's first birthday. Sue gave a party at which a conglomeration of Rhodeses and Nasons attended. Christopher danced around in a frenzy for five hours. The boy has the energy of Ajax. Frances was wearing a kilt like a grown up girl. Katie remains a fried egg. Dave came and went to do his double glazing. John came in with Janette which was a surprise because we were told she was going home for the weekend. ____________. To Lynn's after Sue had put the birthday boy to bed. More sandwiches and coffee. Mum and Dad brought us back to Club Street at 9:20.

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Saturday February 26, 1983

 Up at 6:44, my usual hour during the week. We took breakfast clad only in our under garments and went off to get a bus to Skipton at 9-ish. We scurried around Skipton buying biege dungarees for Christopher and Cadbury's Creme Eggs and silly wrapping paper. Ally in her green boots wearing one of my shirts with the collar standing up. Delectable. At 11:30 we got on a coach containing seven old ladies, all in those horrible pale-blue raincoats. The driver went like a bat out of hell to Settle. We sat biting each others creme eggs. Messy. The seven old ladies climbed off at Gargrave. We met Mum and Dad at Settle at 12:15 and drove to Stainforth and sat in a pub until 3. Showed then Auntie Annie's letter leaving out the photo of Albert and Ruth which we are saving for a surprise. The pub landlady from South Yorkshire was broader than she was tall, drawing on a cigarette, and talking very loudly about Morecambe. Back at Waltergarth. The first day off my parents have had in weeks. Dad slumbered in the chair. Mum spoke about her aunt, Harriet Basham. We dined at 7 by candlelight and collapsed afterwards. The new cooker cost a few pounds short of £700. To bed at 12 after Terry Wogan, someone on TV that Dad actually likes.

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Friday February 25, 1983

 Fog today. Deep, deep fog. YP. Kathleen has told Austin-Clarke of my departure. Feel no terror but that might come with time. I have chosen a bad time to make myself redundant with 86m unemployed, but if I don't go now I never will. Phoned Mum and told her we will see her tomorrow. They were thinking about coming to see us but my request was accepted. They had Jim & Margaret last weekend and Jim did the plumbing. They gave them jugged hare for dinner.

Tonight we had chilli con carne and bean sprouts. Very hot. Ally dashed about packing for tomorrow. _____. A horrible American detective drama on TV. Tiresome. I looked at Pepys. It's annoying the way he bursts into French when writing anything remotely saucy. I kept nudging Ally for a translation. To bed after 10.

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Thursday February 24, 1983

Ruth & Albert (not the image mentioned)

 I was wallowing in the bath and Ally came bounding up the stairs with a letter from Auntie Annie Kirk containing a bundle of photographs from various Rhodes occasions spanning the decades. One of Uncle John's first wedding (to Betty) with poor Grandma Rhodes looking seriously ill. (It was the year she died, I think), and a splendid 1930s/40s portrait of Grandma and Granddad Rhodes, a tatty little sepia print, which I took to Betty at YP photo sales who made me a copy neg and a couple of prints for £4.50. I shall present one to Papa. Photos of Albert and Ruth are incredibly rare. I feel very pleased with myself for landing it. Auntie Annie says that when she is gone it would only have been thrown away.

Ally had a rewarding afternoon speaking to a Mr Tarbuck at Whitbreads and tonight we compiled a letter to the pleasant little man asking for an application form. Then, feeling particularly snoopy, we went on foot to the Traveller's Rest on Duckworth Lane (a Whitbread's training pub) where we sat watching the bar staff through great billowing coulds of smoke. We detest tobacco fumes, but that's a thing we'll have to learn to die with, I suppose. After two pints of Stella I felt and looked pissed. We have decided to go to Horton on Saturday by bus. I must ring Mama tomorrow. Fish and chips from over the road and then Sir Robin Day on the BBC. A.J.P. Taylor is a gas. Bed after 11.

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