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.

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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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Wednesday June 6, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

D-Day and Derby Day. HM has missed the Derby for the first time since her coronation to go to Normandy. Our so called day off. We spent the morning watching TV coverage of the 'allies' gathering on the French beaches. Very touching. Especially the sight of little grey haired war widows stumbling upon the graves of their husbands for the first time. 

We packed the car (including the TV) and went off at 2. Visited more pine shops and found some little pieces on Burley Rd. On to Bradford and we settled down at Club St to tranquil domesticity. Saw the Queen, Uncle Ron, Queen Beatrix, King Baudouin, King Olav, President Mitterrand, Pierre Trudeau, &c. Knee deep in sand and nostalgia. Not a German in sight - obviously. Prawn curry and pots of tea. We want Samuel to know Club Street. I think we shall never sell it. 

Back for 11:15 to find I have won £5 on the tap room Derby sweep. Didn't see the race, but it was a photo-finish.

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Tuesday June 5, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

We went on a little expedition today looking in the junk shops on Kirkstall Road and Burley Rd. Ally, in a buying mood, wants more pine furniture. We saw quite a lot but couldn't reach a decision. Bingley was too far away and so we went to Cheap 'n Cheerful, full of nice things already sold and awaiting collection. Bought an old picture called 'Anchored', knocked down from £17 to £11. Ally doesn't like it, and thinks I'm mad to have purchased it. A woman in the shop told us that Samuel is too pretty to be a boy. 

Tomorrow is the anniversary of D-Day. They seem to be making a big fuss about it. The Prince of Wales is in Normandy today and HM sails to Caen tomorrow in Britannia.

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Monday June 4, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Bank Holiday in the Republic of Ireland

Cold and wet. Poor Samuel is snuffling and wheezing, and with a runny nose. He is drowsy and exceptionally cuddly. Wisps of hair on top of his head. He looks like a duck.

An awful breakfast. Ally burned the eggs and sulked. I hid behind the Daily Telegraph.

Lady Joanna Knatchbull is engaged to Baron Hubert de Breuil, of Paris. Diana's cousin, Lord Annaly, has wed for the third time. Ronald Reagan and Nancy come here from Eire today. He has been back to his Irish roots, and whenever I caught sight of them on the telly today they were wailing and sobbing in true Hollywood tradition. Ally, not usually a cynic, says he is just a very good actor. Later, we saw them arriving in London to kisses from the prime minister and a greeting from the poor Duke of Gloucester, who looks very un-royal. Richard looks more like a bank clerk. However, it is good to see that Reagan is so enamoured of the PM. The last close relationship twixt a PM and US president was Macmillan and Kennedy. Just imagine what damage Neil Kinnock could do?

Quiet night. Samuel was awake until 10:30.

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