Friday June 22, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Rella Fawbert is 129 and Paul Edwards is 20. Sue is still hanging on. 

Talk to drunken Matt in the tap room. He is an authority on the Iran-Iraq conflict. The Falklands War was a 'tea party', he added and concluded with 'perhaps we should take on China.' Mad as a hatter.

Princess Margaret and the Duke of Westminster have appeared on 'the Archers'. Whatever next? The Duchess of Kent an agony aunt on TV-am? The Queen Mother on 'Crossroads'? I disapprove of such goings on. I am not of this century. 

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Thursday June 21, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Prince William of Wales is two today. Baby Nason remained firmly in the comfort of his mother's womb. Dad is good. He helped 'bottle up' and kept Christopher permanently engaged in play. What a wonderful way he has with kids. All the grandchildren look upon Dad as something really special. Christopher is full of character and not a bit naughty. He sings 'blue, blue my arse is blue' but really wants to sing the right words. Such a giggle. This place is so roomy we can all live together and not feel suffocated. 

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Wednesday June 20, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Mum and Dad seem happier now than ever before. This is what love is all about. It should be nurtured to grow into a tree. Bodies disappeared into cars and taxis. I didn't feel too bad considering. Uncle Bert recalled the death bed of his great-grandmother (Sarah Ann Upton 1864-1936). 'You know how sentimental Roman Catholics become when they are dying', he drawled. He described the old lady propped up in bed in the parlour gasping: 'Let this cup pass from me'. By noon Bert had gone. With Mum, Dad and Christopher to see Sue, who was looking disgustingly well and no nearer bringing Benjamin James or Samantha Kate into the world. This waiting eats away at Mum's nerves.

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Tuesday June 19, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Mum & Dad's Pearl wedding anniversary, somewhat spoiled by Susie's absence, and the expected baby. Ally and I were in town at 5pm looking fo white shoes. It's the sort of thing we used to laugh at Maria doing. Dave G and Billy walked in at 6pm as we were blowing up balloons. _____ A table was set up downstairs at 7:30, and people drifted in too numerous to list here. Mostly family, and a few friends. Lynn looking fat and tanned. David studious and quiet. I became intoxicated and staggered around. Tim and Jill full of talk of Spain, &c. Hilda was dull because she's on a diet consisting of drinking nothing but bitter lemon. We all went upstairs at 10:30 after Billy's cabaret, and the party went on until dawn. Bodies, bottles, and black pudding everywhere.

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Monday June 18, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Waterloo Day. Jennie Rawnsley's birthday. She has no doubt now reached puberty. What a clever child she was. No developments from Susie. You won't believe this, but we have had a letter telling us that Leslie Gledhill is ceasing to be our area manager, and to be replaced by guess who? Yes, not Colin Black. Not Donna Lea, but by Fran O'Brien. We both could be physically sick. This has really knocked the stuffing out of our cushions , or wind out of our sails, or whatever it is they say. To Leeds market at 9am. We saw Fran O'B on the doorstep at the Duncan, but he didn't arrive at the Moorhouse. Uncle Bert staggered out of a taxi at 10:30. Vague and dry as ever. We had a chicken and mushroom pie and watched Ursula Andress in 'She'. Mum, Dad and Christopher arrived at 4 o'clock. We passed an evening in the lounge bar. Bert and Papa always go off on some unanswerable debate which can be boring. I refused to be drawn into the banter about A. Scargill, public schools and Mrs Thatcher, though I do fear for the prime minister's future if papa mirrors public opinion. Dad voted Tory in '79 and '83, and now thinks Mrs T is unyielding and could be more compassionate, &c. Is this a turning point for Maggie's fortunes? Bed late. Bert, poor soul, suffers from a vast inferiority complex. We must, he says, be earning as much as £100 a week. Oh, dear.

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Sunday June 17, 1984

 Trinity Sunday

Father's Day

Moorhouse Inn

Extremely warm. Samuel, in bed, gave me a card and a yellow silk tie. Ally says she wouldn't allow him to spend much on me. Quite right. At 2:30 Ally, Sammy and I went out on to the moor, or whatever it is you call the park thing surrounding the pub, and we sun bathed for an hour or so on a grassy embankment. Of course we had an audience from the high rise flats. I slept soundly for an hour until a discarded 'Sunday People' blew onto my face. Litter louts. Samuel's eyes looked puffy and he was itching to sneeze.. Is he perhaps like us? Sproggy, &c. I do hope not. I have always like fur and feathers but they have never liked me. Back to the Moorhouse thirsty at 5 o'clock. What a lovely Father's Day. Phoned Horton. The clan were assembled there, minus Susie, who went back to the Clarendon wing at 2:30. Mum says (Uncle) Bert is arriving at Leeds tomorrow.

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Saturday June 16, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

The Birthday Honours list is gazetted. Nothing startling, and once again, I'm excluded. Mrs Thatcher has nominated no new life peerages. I always go straight to the Royal Victorian Order - I'd have a GCVO. 

Downstairs we dutifully watched the Trooping the Colour.  Prince William made a balcony appearance. The Queen Mother was in a carriage with the Princess of Wales, and for the first time in many years - no Duke of Beaufort. 

To Linfood and spent £90 on Pearl wedding party nosh. Drove away heavily laden.

This afternoon. Bought Samuel a pushchair and pushed him around sticky Leeds. Bought Edinburgh cut glass tumblers - four - for £18. John will go halves. Steered clear of Laura Ashley. A costly day.

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Friday June 15, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Warm and balmy. Late tonight while clearing up I saw Audrey and Terry and Co sitting in a pissed clique outside the Egan residence. Maureen, on her way here, was flat out on their garden path, swearing like a trooper. In fact, she'd make a trooper look like Barbara Cartland. Pam was out there too. Ken (Newton) is playing with the Bachelors at Eastbourne, where Auntie Mabel is holidaying for the coming week. Ally stayed behind to do the tills and when I was coming home at 12:30am I found her coming downstairs with the intention of partying too. Instead we went to bed. Too hot. Sammy was hot, sweet and restless.

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Thursday June 14, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

David Lawson is 29. I fear for David's sanity and don't suppose he'll be pleased at todays anniversary. A Peter Pan to be sure.

This journal is proving tiresome. I have no time. Shopping, shopping, shopping. It's a hideous task looking for a pearl wedding gift. It will have to be cut glass. It is a pity we children did not club together for the gift. Dad wants a pub table, but they are £90.

The Press refers to Lord Althorp as 'loutish'. Evidently the aristo attempted to 'de-bag' Tony Blackburn in a London restaurant. Jolly good show, Charlie. Diana must giggle.

-=-

Wednesday June 13, 1984

 Full Moon

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Dreary and wet. We were up at dawn to clean the beer lines, polish the brasses, &c. We left Samuel asleep and spent an hour downstairs. At 8:30 we had a cooked breakfast. (Samuel on mashed bananas). Belly laughs at 'Private Eye'. Despite my nationalistic and patriotic bent I do have a great love of irreverence and naughtiness. Even jokes about the Queen. 

Sue phoned. She had a few aches and contractions in bed during the night, but isn't doing anything at the moment. The poor girl is niggly and cannot be far off delivery. David, cheerful as ever, called in to collect Ally's summery maternity gowns for Lynn to try on in readiness for Tuesday. He asked: "are we just meeting here (at the Moorhouse) and then going on somewhere afterwards?" Bloody Hell. The pearl wedding party here will be the height of the 1984 social season. The top in Hunslet's social calendar. Poor David. I think he's going funny in the head. On at 3 in the rain to town to buy a present for Mum and Dad. In Laura Ashley Ally bought a little black dress for £19. With white beads and bracelets she'll look superb. I do love her dinky body.

Ally says it's John Pinder's birthday. She is quite oblivious to how old her ex is. Pinder Nason? I think not.

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Tuesday June 12, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

The dray came in the middle of the night, or that's what it felt like at 7 o'clock. Day two of the new pub menu. A marked improvement. We sold one beef curry and one shepherd's pie. Samuel had the special of the day mushed up in a bowl and he wolfed it down. The gas men working on the council estate boosted our takings but they like to linger with dominoes until 3:30. They've been installing central heating in Albert & Kitty's house for nine days. One could plumb the entire globe in half the time, surely.

Arrivals: a son to David and Lady Carina Frost. Departures: Lord Glenavy, the brother of Patrick Campbell, the deceased, spluttering TV personality (I should have said stuttering); Gabrielle Rowley-Conwy, 106, mother of Lord Langford; and Earl Howe, 75.

The news showed Prince William racing around the garden at Kensington Palace. The prince is two and looks a little cracker. They say he called the P of W 'daddy'. They usually say 'papa' in the royal family. I only hope Diana isn't 'mam'. Watched the PM giving a party political broadcast on the coming European election. Churchillian from top to bottom. It's now a year since the general election triumph. Let us hope and pray she will stop Neil Gimmick in '87.

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Monday June 11, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Day one of the a la carte menu. Obviously, nobody took advantage of our culinary delights, but eventually I'm sure we'll knock some sense into them. Audrey sniffed at the typed pages listing pâté, mackerel salad, and chocolate gateau. 'They've all tried this before', &c. Ally was in a collapsed state and slept from 2pm. I bathed Samuel and went down covered in suds, etc, at 5:30 to serve ale to the great unwashed. Or in this case to the few unwashed, because the place was dead. Still, one must battle on. 

Peerage news: Lord Glasgow is pushing up the daisies and so too is Viscount Lymington, a Wallop, and a kinsman of Carolyn Herbert. Lady Rupert Nevill's brother, no less.

Samuel now plays with squeaky things and uses his initiative more. Every day we see him doing more and more and the changes in him are too numerous to record. I cannot write about him adequately. He is just perfection. It, and by it I mean parenthood, is the greatest gift bestowed upon us mortals. Those who have not experienced children have not lived. 

Dr Glass has sent Susan home for a week but if nothing happens this week he wants her back in on Sunday. Her D-Day is June 20. Susan always has 12 month pregnancies. Mum and Dad are flitting between Horton and Guiseley burning petrol as if there is no tomorrow. Like blue-arsed flies, no less.

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Sunday June 10, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Whit Sunday

We are putting out a new menu tomorrow. We will be equal only to the Savoy Grill. Ally typed a menu, and Samuel bashed at the keys. A budding Harold Robbins? Luncheon saw the arrival of Uncle Peter, cousin Julie, Stephen Dean, and Beverley, who celebrates her birthday today. I was too busy to spend much time with them but took them upstairs to see the sleeping babe. They gasped at the size of the flat. Afterwards we went to see Susie. A baby boy today would have to be Philip. The Duke of Edinburgh is 63. He is a national institution. Imagine Britain without Philip? Frightening, eh? Mum, all edgy and expectant, was at the bedside with Papa, Peter and Christopher. The lad was ransacking the ward and they cannot understand it because he has been an angel at Horton. It is Peter's influence. They all came back here at 4 for a couple of hours. Mum was in a fluster and not herself. They left and I opened up (the pub) tired and groggy. Ally cooked curry, lasagne, steak and kidney for tomorrow's menu. 

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Saturday June 9, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Sunshine. To Linfood at dawn with Sammy Bear. Spend £39. Ally opened up and then we went to Morrison's, Leeds market and on to the Clarendon Wing covered in grime and sweat bearing a limp, dying plant for Sue who we find enjoying the rudest of health, looking fat, tanned and idle. She is in a large ward quite alone and thumbing through a copy of the December 1983 Cosmopolitan, and a tatty Women's Own. Samuel, good as gold, played on the bed. Sue has set her heart, foolishly, on having a girl. I hope she will not be disappointed. A daughter will be Samantha Kate. Tonight I felt vicious and yelled at a toothless hag who came in at five to eleven. Shook with rage, in fact. Ally stayed upstairs with Bear.

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Friday June 8, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Susie went off to the Clarendon Wing and is on the top floor laying and waiting. Phoned Mama at 3:30. They had just given Christopher lunch and were eating ice cream on the lawn. Later I phoned Peter who said they won't bring the baby early and Sue will have a week in bed first. Young Nason is obviously waiting until Mum and Dad's Pearl wedding extravaganza. Today is the birthday of Papa's sister, Dorothy. It's also the Duke and Duchess of Kent's wedding anniversary.

Eric Morecambe has been planted in Hertfordshire. Or was he burned? To me Ernie Wise doesn't look as upset as he should be. The Reagans are in London dining with Her Majesty and visiting Prince William at Kensington Palace. They have bought HRH a wooden horse from Carolina. Let's hope Caspar Weinberger isn't inside. Inside the horse, that is. You know, like the Troy business.

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Thursday June 7, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

The papers are full of d-Day slush. I suppose they are all fussing about this particular anniversary because in ten years time the veterans will all have passed on to that great beach head in the sky. To think they gave everything to save this land for the likes of Arthur Scargill.

Sue rang. We had been to town and had sauntered in the market carrying a hot, snotty Samuel, and I was standing in the bar screwing up a light fitting showering plaster everywhere. Sue told us they are putting her in bed at the Clarendon Wing tomorrow and will leave her in this horizontal position until she delivers her baby. This could go on for weeks. The poor girl is very brave and good humoured. Christopher is going to Horton for the duration. 

John came at 8:30 with a big bearded bloke called Joe. Both looked soiled. We stood in the tap room talking about Keith Jessup, the HMS Edinburgh salvage millionaire and a friend of Joe. John is back in favour with George Q. Waite, also on his way to a vast fortune. John says JPH has laryngitis. Ally and I feel throaty too. They left at 10:30. Karen and Margaret moaning about how busy it's been. What are they here for if not to be busy? Staff - what trouble they are.

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