Tuesday June 7, 1983

 No letter from Sam Smiths which is a let down. An overcast day with only the occasional show from the sun. What a crap summer. 

Neil Kinnock shouting his mouth off on the lunchtime news. Falklands, Falklands, Falklands. Stirring up the details of our fantastic victory of last year will only increase the Tory vote as far as I can see. 

Ally phoned at 3. She wants a curry followed by a rice pudding. I shall of course give her what she wants. Ally moved to Guiseley from Winchester four years ago today. A historic day in the life of the author of this journal and for the Rhodes dynasty.

We refer to the baby as 'Tubby'. The large whisky bottle containing £70 in coins has always been the 'Clemmie Fund', not done particularly because we want a daughter. I have forgotten why this came about. I have no leanings for a child of any particular sex and will be very pleased with either male or female offspring. Nothing 'in between' please. 

Ally came home cheerfully and we sat with the door and all the windows open. The evening warm and sticky. Ally has her sofa, and me the armchair. Saw the ancient Western 'Shane' starring Alan Ladd. Slobbering at the end. The small Irish person on the nine o'clock news discussed Mrs Thatcher's cabinet (the one she'll form on Friday) and Cecil Parkinson was suggested as the new foreign secretary and Norman Tebbit as Home secretary. I don't think Mrs T will discard Willie Whitelaw or Francis Pym just yet. We shall see. 

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Monday June 6, 1983

 Sunshine and breezes. Up with the larks. Give Ally a boiled egg. She has taken a shine to Francis (Wilson), the BBC Breakfast TV weather forecaster. He looks very much like Andy Graham. I went out to dig furiously in the garden uprooting gigantic dandelions and deep-rooted buttercups. It is my first foray into the garden this year. The mint is high, and once the tulips have gone the display will be far from Chelsea Flower Show standard. I suppose we need a few good hardy annuals. Then, basking in the morning sun I set about cleaning the windows and dispose of some of Steve O'Connor's debris. Then, with sweat on my brow, I threw everything into the washing machine and hung everything out of the washing line. Miss Whincup, over the road, comes out into her garden from time to time and gives me a smile. The lunchtime news: The Alliance are convinced that they'll beat Labour. Baked bread and sat with a coffee watching the shirts billowing on the line. This diary has gone, in the space of five years, from the journal of a debauched bachelor to that of a sedate, working 'house husband'. It must be terribly dull for you all. Never mind, with a bit of luck the years end will see me a licensee in a thriving tavern and then I'll have a few tales to tell, eh? We have had a postcard from Auntie Mabel in Llandudno. We haven't seen her since February, and so we must go soon to give her our joyous news. She'll be knitting furiously for six months. Ally came in looking well and alive and we sat in the peace of a Lidget Green evening eating a chicken broth with dumplings. I felt shagged out and we went upstairs and slept for an hour. Sue phoned. Are we going to Chippy's orgy on Saturday? No, Winchester calls. She says that Mrs Sumpton called the other day to thank her for the floral tributes for John. We say nothing about our news of course and say we'll go over on Thursday. Watched 'Minder' and went to bed after seeing the Waleses at the premiere of 'Octopussy'.

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Sunday June 5, 1983

 1st Sunday after Trinity

Another day of quiet repose. We do not phone any family for fear of letting the cat out of the bag.

Bacon and eggs. Ally has read somewhere that bacon is full of protein. Bessie phoned to thank us for the flowers. She has also received a bouquet from her sister Joan. __________. Graham and Gill have been to see them. Graham, she said, didn't think much to our family planning at a time when I am unemployed. Such things cannot be planned. We thank God for them. Later Gill phoned and was excited about our news. She says Graham is in a mood because of a marketing exam planned for tomorrow. Matthew is just about crawling. Bessie says her grandson is 'quite bonnie'. We plan to go see the Dixons of Coleford in Bessie's car sometime next week.

We ate half a chicken and a rich chocolate cake. Ally, pale and washed out, disappeared to bed at 10. I looked in at the first five minutes of the news and retired cheerfully rejoicing the demise of the Labour Party. Is Roy Jenkins going to be leader of HMs opposition on Friday? Mrs T certainly has nothing to fear. I have inserted a 'Vote Tory' poster in my bedroom window. I haven't done such a thing before. Ones political leanings are essentially personal but no way could I sleep with ease at night thinking that the woman at number 18 assumes we are Labour voters. Tom Torney is our MP which is bad enough, but Pat Wall is only five miles away in the adjoining constituency. To bed with Jane Eyre.

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