Friday March 29, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

My cousin Sam is back looking frightening. Quite hideous. Frankenstein-like to say the least. Shaved head, mad, wild eyes, and a melancholic expression. Weird old fashioned clothes too. And he was smoking a pipe. Very reminiscent of Grandpapa Rhodes. A sad, pathetic figure. He asked for Great-Aunt Ann's address and went away with it saying he'll offer to do her garden and run errands. Like a boy scout. He will probably frighten the life out of the old girl. He asked to see Dad but I knew that Dad didn't want to come down. I suppose I should have let Sam go upstairs, but Mum was in no mood to see anyone.

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Thursday March 28, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Sunny start, but dull by lunchtime. Up at 7 an hour before Samuel. We breakfasted on beans and poached eggs and went for a walk up Dewsbury Rd. Ally collected my anti-Tara pills from the chemist. 

Dear Auntie Hilda is 49 today. Mum slept well but felt horribly sick and vomited at the smell of the aroma of food and our cooking fat. She was down in the dumps too, like she was on Lynn's birthday. God knows what she must be going through. To have an imagination is always an asset, but not at a time like this. Dad was later pottering about making a sheep's head broth.

We were so very excited about our 'Greek' evening. We went out at 7:30 to town by bus. More or less the full company of our lounge customers. To a pub, I've forgotten which, and then on to Scorpio's for 9:30. A merry evening. Ally and I sat with Pam, Tina and Carole (daughter of one of the Bachelors group). Taramasalata  and lamb kebabs, &c. Much wine. Much dancing. They had me up limbo dancing, supposedly in celebration of my coming birthday. Quite jolly. 2:30am finish. Home in a taxi with a poor bugger who'd been on the ouzo. Really awful.

-=-

Wednesday March 27, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

An early start. Up at 7. Dad went to Horton and he deposited me at Beeston Medical Centre en route. I sat in one of those horrible queues full of wheezing old men and snotty-nosed wailing three year olds. Very lowering it all is. Saw Dr Danks at 8:30 who prescribed some pills which will prevent me going into an asthmatic attack on seeing Tara (the retriever) next week. I am told that they do not mix with alcohol. Back home for 9. Mum was bright and cheerful and I made a mug of Complan  and helped her to sit up. At lunchtime she poked at a beef curry, but didn't eat, and then had six fried scampi which she enjoyed.

-=-

Tuesday March 26, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Uneventful. Not feeling very descriptive these days. This year has been full of gloom. The wind has been knocked out of our sails. Here I am, at 30, but for a week. I have a pot-belly in the making and signs of a developing double chin. Not a grey hair though, but neither has my mother.  ___________.

-=-

Monday March 25, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Armitage came to see Mum. He can do very little but he does boost her morale and always goes away leaving her cheery and fighting. I do not think Mum sees enough of the health people. She now has bigger and stronger sleeping pills. 

Archie (left).

To Archibald Drummond Adams's funeral at Cottingley (crematorium). The crematorium resembles a cinema. A full Moorhouse Inn turn-out. (The Rev Terry) Munro took the modern, almost slapstick service. Pitiable, really. Mavis (Adams) didn't weep and sat with a stony face throughout. I found a back-row seat and travelled in a taxi with Taffy, Lesley Heaton, and an anonymous mourner. Aren't funerals awful? The pub was packed afterwards. Archie would have liked that. 

Tonight was also like a gala night. The mourners, covered in cuts and bruises after a brawl in the club, hit the booze with a savagery that took my breath away.

-=-

Sunday March 24, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

5th Sunday in Lent

Still groggy. Feel half dead. Watched Peter Sellers in a 'Pink Panther' film this afternoon. Ally made gammon at tea time. My wife resents me being ill and banged around a good deal. Mum instructed me to go to bed, but I managed to stay on my feet.

-=-

Saturday March 23, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

I have a horrible, heavy cold. But work must go on. We were visited by John, Janette, Jill and Tim. A pity really because I was in no mood for such revelry. Baby talk basically. Jill says they might have a Jonathan. Janette said that a son might be Simon, at which John replied: "I'm having no Simon under my roof." They all hung around until 1am saying how tired and ill I looked. Ally kept dropping hints and yawning theatrically, but it didn't work.

-=-

Friday March 22, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Princess Anne has been interviewed on Wogan's dreadful show and was apparently very good. She has had good media treatment recently. Mum didn't get out of bed to watch it, saying: "she (the princess) wouldn't get out of bed to see me." Ally looked in on the interview and her peals of laughter could be heard throughout the building. I must say I have always admired Mrs Mark Phillips. HM should have made her Princess Royal by now. I am a stickler for tradition.

-=-

Thursday March 21, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

New Moon

Parkinson or Redgrave?

Cold. The first day of Springtime. Sir Michael Parkinson has died aged 77, from Redgrave's Disease, or is it the other way round?

The decorators conclude. Ally suspects that in the latter stages they tired somewhat and found the task a toil. The small, Scottish and bewigged decorator was dolloping varnish everywhere, but where it was actually needed. They left at 5. We finished at 2 and went to Club Street to paint the bedroom leaving Samuel with Grandpapa. We did half the room and returned home at 5. Maureen did the bar until 8. Poor Mum was in bed all day again. She has had nothing to eat since Saturday except for a small splodge of porridge. She wept tonight. The look of despair I shall never forget.

Archie is to be cremated at Cottingley on Monday at 1:30. I will probably go.

-=-

Wednesday March 20, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Cold. Drizzle. The decorators work at a slug-like speed. The lounge is shut off  and clouds of varnish fumes hang in the atmosphere, like the mushroom cloud over Nagasaki or Dresden. 

One of those boring sieges is going on in London. It's a murderer holed up in a van in Berkeley Square. It must be a smelly, sweaty experience.

Mum is stuck in bed. Why Dad refuses to phone Armitage I do not know. She had a small bowl of porridge but nothing else. Sue, Pete and the boys came at 11:30. It's Peter's birthday. They came after visiting St James's Hospital - you know, Benjamin's heart. His quack is on holiday in Australia. The soddin' NHS. They left after half an hour and refused an invitation to stay to lunch.

The boys from the Station returned to do battle (pool). But we don't have our Archie. We won but lost on aggregate. I was too busy to socialise with Tim and Mary. So much ale spilled - the tap room floor was like the Empire Pool, Wembley.

-=-

Tuesday March 19, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

An early dray delivery. The decorating continues. They were varnishing the woodwork in the lounge and our lungs are heavy with fumes. Uncle Peter appeared in the tap room in oily overalls - from Spensalls - to see Mum, and he didn't cause a fuss when I clearly lied to him and said Mum was asleep. In truth she was sat up in bed but in no mood to see visitors. We stood at the bar talking about the Wilsons. He has a soft spot for John and speaks affectionately about him. __________. He is so very upset by Mum's illness, and his heart is always in the right place.

-=-