Thursday October 25, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

My cousin Sam.

A terrible thing has happened. We cleaned the beer lines this morning and let Samuel play in his baby-walker down in the lounge bar. I was up and down to the cellar at regular intervals and closed the door behind me each time, except once, when the boy decided to investigate and he came down the stone steps in his walker landing with a bump at the bottom. He cut his head. Ally and I were in hysterics and took him to the LGI. He needed no stitches - Thank God - but they x-rayed his head and checked his limbs, and sent us away shaken, but relieved. I kept bursting into tears and was rendered useless for the rest of the day. Samuel recovered and played as he usually does but looks so pathetic with a bandage above his eye. Phoned Mum who had a good cry. I must have looked bad because Audrey bought me a Remy (brandy). Feel ashamed at our negligence. My cousin Samuel appeared tonight, quite out of the blue, and he sat at the bar on a stool looking like Ringo Starr. I recognised him immediately. He is a sad figure housed in Shaftesbury House until he can find a place in Leeds. He says he is tired of Cumbria and wants to return to his roots. We had a good natter. That Rhodes humour is very much at the forefront of his personality.

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Wednesday October 24, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

United Nations Day

New Moon

Samuel crawled and in a forward direction. Historic occasion. World News: NACODS cannot decide about strike action. The Mitterrands are here with the Queen. She's seen more French presidents that she's had hot dinners. The late Earl of Warwick has left £61 in his will. Of course he was filthy rich. How very clever of him. The Treasury must be fuming. The Earl of Ulster is 10. 

Rain, cold, &c. Autumn leaves. Late up. In fact I woke up to find Samuel in the bed looking at me. Ally was cooking curry and lasagne, after counting the tills. We breakfasted with Mum & Dad. Porridge, sausages, crumpets, &c. They left at 12 with Samuel's portrait wrapped in newspaper, for Pudsey to go see Auntie Hilda. It's always sad saying goodbye. 

Who cares about United Nations Day?

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Tuesday October 23, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Up early with a slight hangover, though I drank little. It's lack of sleep. We discussed Christmas last night. They are definitely coming here for the festival and we'll ask them to come after dinner. I don't suppose Lynn will budge from Thorpe Lane. I suggest that for Mum's 50th birthday we should have a child-free 'do' at a restaurant where we can all talk and laugh away from the pack of offspring, just for a change. They think this is a good idea. What about the Hare and Hounds? 

Ally went off to Tadcaster for a food hygiene seminar, no doubt very dull. It is Samuel's first day without his mother. Dad took the boy to the park and Mum and I did the pub lunches, and I think we did very well. Afterwards Dad and I took our recumbent angel to Grandways. Horrible children were outside collecting for Guy Fawkes and Dad fell for the scam and coughed up. I had none of it. Ally was back for 5pm and the tea time conversation was centred on germs. Crumpets. The couple from the Duncan called to see us. A busy Tuesday minus staff. Mum and Dad came down for a 'quickie'. Later, watched the news. The state dinner for the Mitterrands at Buckingham Palace. Bed at 12:20. Mum and Dad stayed here again.

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Monday October 22, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Busy. Marlene and Frank appeared for lunch when our food supplies were virtually exhausted. we managed to feed them. At 2 we went upstairs where they inspected Samuel who was tootling around at great speed in his baby-walker. They left after an hour promiosing to attend our Halloween extravaganza on Saturday. Marlene is a very sweet 'Wilson' and has something of Motherdear about her. 

Tonight the pool players gave Ally flowers and a card for the sandwiches which was nice of them. We had a busy, lively evening for a Monday. Mum and Dad arrived at 10:20 and we sat for a few quick ones. Mum did look fresh and healthy and consumed tomato juice. We gave them a portrait of Samuel which seemed to delight them both and we went upstairs happy and friendly as in days of old. Dad went to bed and we talked with Mum until nearly 3am.

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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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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.

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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.

Monday October 15, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Phoned Horton and spoke to my prodigal parents. Ally has to go to the brewery next week on a food hygiene course and I asked them to come here and babysit. They have no news really. The girls have been up the dales. Lynn had stayed for a night last week when Dave was in Scotland. It's a bit of a mystery to me why the telephone has gone out of fashion in Horton-in-Ribblesdale. They don't ring to enquire whether Samuel has teeth, or 'O' Levels or the Military Cross. Very sad. 

As I've said we have bought Samuel a baby-walker which he tootles around in at great speed. He now goes from house plant to plant tearing off leaves and cramming them into his mouth like a panda with bamboo shoots.

Pool match night. Vicky Pearson came in looking like Sue Ellen  from 'Dallas' with back-combed hair and a micro-skirt. It will all end in tears. Maureen, virtually crippled, was driven home by Ally at 11. To bed with books. Jack Higgins again.

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