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Monday May 21, 1984

 Bank Holiday in Canada

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Lord Willoughby de Broke is 88; Lord Clydesmuir 67; Lord Maxwell 65, Mr J. Malcolm Fraser 54, and Alison Mary Rhodes is 26.

We were awake early and I gave Ally her presents in bed. Samuel loves wrapping paper. She had a call from Bessie, who says Gill is expecting further issue in January, also a call from Susie. We scurried around doing our usual jobs but excited at the prospect of escaping this afternoon. It was a dull overcast sort of day. 

At 2:30 we left for Horton. I felt dog tired. At Waltergarth for 4pm. Found Mum and Dad in a jovial mood. We were joined by two peculiar hikers. One, an Irishman, padded around the house in bare feet. The other chap sat in a corner wearing headphones listening to a long tape recording of bird calls. He was a Mr Pierrepoint, but no relation of the late hangman.  We dined on sirloin and Yorkshire puddings. They are waiting for Janette to announce she is pregnant. They say it's only a matter of time. We left at midnight, and home after one. Utterly shagged out. I slept. Horton is too far away.

-=-

Sunday May 20, 1984

 4th Sunday after Easter

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Warm start, warm later, but rain. I enjoy Sundays, but got up feeling awful after last night. My throat like the bottom of a parrot's cage. I went down at let Ann in. She's 73 and still cleaning. Standing in the dark in my cool cellar did wonders for my headache. Poor Ally. She looks, and feels, like a dead fish. Breakfast on eggs and bacon. Samuel held a rusk and snacked on it. Despite her frail, wet fish-like condition Ally is jovial and beaming. It must be love.

Sunday lunchtime. Just Margaret and I. 'Big Mick's' friends and widow came in to play pool. The widow told me that she has to come out as usual or 'go mad' at home. The poor girl looked ghastly. The funeral is on Friday. I do hope she doesn't think I am going. Like the Queen I restrict my attendance at funerals to only close family members. Upstairs at 2:30. Saw crap on the TV. Look at the (Sunday) Telegraph. Sir John Betjeman, poet laureate, died yesterday aged 78. Was he having an affair with Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, Princess Margaret's lady-in-waiting? We shall see. I have never taken much of a shine to poetry. 'If I should die' by Rupert Brooke I find very touching, but Betjeman's stuff about railway stations leaves me cold. 'If I should die' is actually called 'The Soldier'. Sorry. Wrapped Ally's gifts and bathed Samuel. He shits everywhere most horribly. Ally and I both downstairs tonight. Lynn phoned to say happy birthday to Ally. She was in one of her odd, distant moods.

-=-

Tuesday January 22, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn Cold and quiet. Dave Glynn phoned tonight but Ally and I were in the cellar, and when we phoned back Lily said that David has...