Tuesday June 26, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

F.O'B phoned to ask about our Gaston competition and Ally aksed him when he intends to come and he replied Thursday evening. Good. Now it won't be a shock and we can look prepared. Today was the day my tap room mob saw me as a human alcoholic with murderous tendencies. Yes, we went in a mini bus to the Red Lion with Taffy at the wheel. Seventeen of us. What fun. Not one driving licence between us, but we survived. It was all in aid of a pool competition, but I took little notice of it. Our man, Cliff Wise, won. I was pissed. Brandy, brandy, brandy. The hideous Elaine said she'd swap Les Gledhill for F.O'B any day. Silly cow. Back very late. Poor Ally. All alone at the Moorhouse. Samuel screamed blue murder and I hiccoughed my way in and took the poor mite in hand whilst Ally escaped to the spare bedroom, at her wits end. Alcohol took hold and I slept.

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Monday June 25, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Waiting. We expect Baby Nason and Fran O'Brien any day and the expectancy is eating away at us. I am permanently on guard and on the look-out for F.O'B, and the place is like a new pin. Poor Leslie. We shall miss him and his casual approach. He has given us such help since we left the Why Not.

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Sunday June 24, 1984

 1st Sunday after Trinity

Midsummer Day

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Midsummer Day. Didn't see much of it. Marlene and Frank appeared at lunch with Mabel fresh from Eastbourne. They sat outside and Ally joined them with Samuel and they coo over him. Back to the Clarendon Wing we found Mum and Dad, Peter and Christopher at the bedside. Samuel played for them on the bed and pulled Christopher's hair. Susie is bigger and more weary, __ We gave Mum the top tier of our wedding cake to take to Mrs Rusby at Guiseley - to re-ice it as Samuel's christening cake. 

Saturday June 23, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Catherine, my niece, is 5. _______. It's five years then since Ally and I were in bed at Pine Tops when John phoned with the news.

To hospital this afternoon with Samuel to see Susie. Baby slept on the bed to the screams of delight from the other 'inmates'. Susan was well, but bored. She doesn't read anything. Surely, this is our last visit?

Michael Brown was here at luncheon with his father. They were supping mild and complaining about the colour of the Old Brewery bitter. I made a quick exit. These real ale drinkers are as temperamental as ballerinas.

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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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