Thursday April 5, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

My 29th birthday. Up at 7 feeling awful. Sitting in bed Ally gave me a pink and blue tie and a card with a frog on the front. A card - to 'Daddy from Samuel' - brought a lump to my throat. 

A traumatic birthday really. Rob, the stocktaker, came at 8:30, and LG at 9 with the new optics. We have a £142 defecit which was something of a body blow. The loss is in the draught bitter and lager. Mum and Dad went off to Guiseley at 3 and we sat wearily. I worked all evening like a zombie. Margaret bought me a brandy for my birthday and at 10:30 I was heartily glad to go upstairs. John phoned to say 'happy birthday' at 10:45. Poor Ally says I have had an awful birthday but I am contented. I have a son who is beautiful beyond belief and a wife who is an angel.

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Wednesday April 4, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Out into town at 9 with Samuel. The boy despises head gear and kicks and struggles when Mummy dresses him. Crisp and sunny. Ally headed straight to Laura Ashley. We dumped the pram near the curtain fabrics and went upstairs. An elderly spinster, very plain and very large, was trying on a wedding frock and looked like Mount Kilimanjaro. We hurried back and found Mama and Papa upstairs. They helped with the lunches and we had a few drinks afterwards. The Mandarine Napoleon came out. They say John has made an offer for a house on Back Lane. We had no idea he wanted to move.The house that Sue wanted on Moorland Crescent is no longer on the market, and they are going to look elsewhere. We drank in the bar until Maureen came in at 5:30 and we went upstairs. I was furious when Maureen told me later that the Piries had called in after arranging a darts and dominoes evening here on April 10. The bloody cheek of it. I wasn't consulted.

Samuel was niggly and playing up. He must know that we want to go out and leave him. He was in bed for 9pm and at 9:45 we hurried into town and the bistro on Commercial Street (it is the former Betty's Tea Rooms). A disappointing dinner. I had veal in horrible cooking sherry - so sweet. It was supposed to be veal marsala. I didn't let on to Ally that I was disappointed. She also had veal, but in a mushroom sauce. I was pissed and staggered out stripping down the stairs. Ally looking beautiful in a peppermint striped Laura Ashley creation purchased today. Back to the Moorhouse for 11:30. Samuel had been awake until 11 and was now sleeping peacefully. We went down to the empty pub and sat in the lounge. My God, I enter my 30th year tomorrow. To bed after 3am.

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Tuesday April 3, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Busy with food. Dray day. All banked. Bloody Hell, it's all go. 

News: The President of Israel had lunch at Windsor yesterday. Marvin Gaye, the Tamla (Motown) personality, has been killed by his disgruntled Dad. Wasn't Marvin fraternising with Lady Edith Foxwell? 'Heard it Through the Grapevine' will soon be back at number one, no doubt. Almost nine in ten families have some sort of social service assistance. A frightening statistic, eh? 

Jane (Tudor) worked tonight. Old Harold says she is a calming influence on the tap room rowdies. She is slow but I'm sure she's reliable. 

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Monday April 2, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Pisses down. Albert Tatlock is dead. Joan Parkinson left and went without the theatricals I was expecting. I was kissed goodbye, which was nauseating. 

Balderdash in the papers about the Princess of Wales expecting twins. Rot.

Are people taking drugs in our tap room? The ever watchful Edna insists they are. I must admit that a certain element of the clientel are very 'Dylanish' and look like renmants of the long gone hippie era. Will I go down if the beloved CID raid the bar? Dad will have to be consulted. I do not want to be running a den of iniquity.

Samuel beams. He's sturdier. Looking very much like Frank but Ally giggles and says it's only because they are both bald with sticking out ears.

This Gary Hart person is frightening. He's been going everywhere in the US telling everybody he's Irish. They say he's taking the rise out of the Kennedys. Blimey, he'll be drowning his secretary next. Modale is a spineless fart.

To bed relieved at Joan's departure. Knackered.

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