Wednesday October 17, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Ally is in a terrible state with this bloody cold. Red nose, &c.

Sarah and Eileen appeared at 12. It was as though time has stood still. I don't think that either of them actually believe that I am making a 'go' of being a pub landlord. They have heard nothing of Carol Oldroyd (aka Mrs Slocombe) since she rose to fame by marrying that craggy TV salesman with a strong resemblance to the late President Eisenhower, or perhaps Woodrow Wilson. I took the girls upstairs and Samuel clung to his mother as though a pair of ghouls had walked in. Eileen exclaimed: "Oh, doesn't he have an old face?" After lunch off they went into the drizzle.

Ally took to her bed at 2. I spent the afternoon with Samuel, gave him tea, and put him to bed. I worked with Audrey from 8.

-=-

Tuesday October 16, 1984

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

NACODS? Who do they think they are? Where have they come from, and where are they going?

Shit of the Week: NACODS

Ally has a glowing nose and she sneezed and coughed into the night. We were both downstairs this evening because we continue unstaffed. The whole company in the pub fretted over Ally's cold, many suggesting remedies. Old Harold has a soft spot for her. 

Sarah phoned out of the blue to say that she and Eileen are coming here for lunch tomorrow. Bloody hell. Pigs might fly.

Old Lord Denning says that the Brighton bombing was High Treason, and I am in agreement with his lordship on this one. The Daily Star says that the Duke of Edinburgh has yet to meet Prince Harry and that the Prince of Wales is wasting away with worry because of it.

To bed late. Poor Ally sweating, and snuggled down in a great heap.

Shit of the Week: The National Association of Colliery Overmen, Deputies and Shotfirers.