Sunday October 21, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

18th Sunday after Trinity

Horatio Nelson died this day in 1805. Bacon sandwiches for breakfast. A sunny, blustery morn but we didn't venture out because of Samuel's cold. The poor boy has a runny green nose. I made a roast chicken lunch, but we didn't attempt to eat it until after we closed at 2, in case we might have marauding, hungry visitors. I sometimes think that certain family members (the Bakers) must believe that Guiseley is behind the iron curtain or somewhere where the borders cannot be crossed unless one does it through the sewers or by hot-air balloon. We ate at 4. Samuel demolished four small Yorkshire puddings. He has a vast appetite for one so lean and tiny. We love him to distraction. An evening in front of the TV. Robert Lacey's 'Aristocrats' is just awful._____. Margaret Lockwood in a 1940s spy film drove us to bed.

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Saturday October 20, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Susie phoned to say that she and the Nason progency will visit us this afternoon in Jim's automobile. Ally struggled out to the shops and I played with Samuel. He is fascinated by vinyl records. We went downstairs together to 'bottle-up' and he watched from his baby-walker. He smiles for Maureen. A honour indeed. The Nasons rolled up at 2:30 for a couple of hours. Christopher is especially naughty. Obviously, he takes after Peter. Ben is big, fat and blonde, not unlike the late Jayne Mansfield. They are no nearer moving to Thorpe Lane. They left at 5. We ate pizza. Both in the bar tonight. Quiet and stuffy. We are tired.

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Friday October 19, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Re centenarian peers. The late 5th Lord Penrhyn lived to be 101. 

So, it's Friday, again. The schools have broken for half-term and so we were not bombarded with hungry teachers at lunchtime as we usually are. Ally's cold worsened and she took to her bed after Samuel. I repaired to the tap room to sup ale. The locals tend to go a bit mad on a Friday. __ Andrea has had the banns read and is to marry toothless Scottish Dave on November 16. It should be the wedding of the year, and I am told that Andrea does indeed go through matrimony every year.

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Thursday October 18, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Damp, wet and autumnal. The trees on Hunslet Moor are going bald. That cantankerous old sod Lord Shinwell is 100 years old today. Earlier in the week I read in one of the papers that no peer has ever struggled on to see a centenary. This is inaccurate. The old Countess of Kintore, a Scottish peeress in her own right, lived to be 100, and died in September, 1974. Wouldn't it be nice to see Mrs Thatcher survive until 2025?

Looking at yesterday's paper over a cup of tea I splattered a mouthful over the breakfast table on reading a letter from Sir Charles Mott-Radclyffe. Good to know that in this year of NACODS we still have wonderful 18th century-minded folk. How reassuring. Ally wasn't amused but it certainly tickled me.

Ally is much better today, but still with a glowing nose and oozing glands. We thought Sammy might be catching cold too but today he seems unaffected.

Audrey informs me that another regular customer has died and I told her to prepare a list, every morning, of those customers who are still alive, for my inspection. Perhaps it will be easier that way.

The news is all NACODS and Manny Shinwell. Nigel Lawson was on the news talking about the pound which is at its lowest ebb today since 1976. The chancellor (of the Exchequer) looks more like the Prince Regent than the Prince Regent. 

It was a quiet night but not without incident. A drunk in the back bar accused those nice boys who work at Systime (Computers) of stealing his ale, and later on, after I'd closed, gone upstairs, and removed all my clothes, he came back, banging on the pub door saying he'd lost his overcoat and house keys. The saint that I am went down to retrieve his tatty Gannex only to have him disappear into thin air leaving me in the rain clutching at my Kung Fu-style dressing gown. I am far too soft and caring. This guy will obviously have to be clotched upon his return. Bed at midnight. Ally was reading her 1982 (and only) journal. How simply we lived then.

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