Sunday February 2, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, LS11 5NQ

Sexagesima

Waltergarth, Horton-in-Ribblesdale

To Horton early and got to Dad's for 10:30 or so. Bless him, he had roasted a joint of beef and was mixing cheese sauce. The table was set, napkins etc, for lunch. I am always overcome by the feeling of the place. Mum is everywhere. Neighbour Frances came in for a chat. It was bitterly cold. Dad went out to 'attack' Charlie about a hideous erection he has placed on Dad's land without permission. He was furious. We ate at 12 and then Samuel went for a nap in Dad's bed. Photographs of us all hang everywhere. Ally and I drove out to the Cross Streets Inn, which was closed and then to the Gamecock at Austwick. Very homely. Dad and Mum were frequent visitors. On to the Helwith Bridge - quite busy with a warm atmosphere, though the owner is a tatty individual. Back to Dad's for 2. We sat around the fire until 10:30pm. Sam was very good and went back to Dad's bed at 7. Home to the pub for 12. 

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Saturday February 1, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, LS11 5NQ

A day of industry. Ally made a corned beef hash and floated chunks of pickled beetroot on her plate. A real Lancashire thing to do. Down in the cellar at 3:30 to play with the cleaning materials. Made a pack of bleach, detergents  and Brasso for Dad. He will appreciate this. Chris worked tonight and at 11:30 he went away with carry-out jugs of bitter to the value of £17 to attend a wild 21st birthday party. I reminded the boy that he is down for working tomorrow and he promised not to let me down. 

Baby names: Undecided between William and George.

Boys: William, George, Joshua, Aaron, Jacob, Edward, Tobias, Oliver

Girls: Clementine, Alice, Nora, Lucy, Mary, Eliza, Sophie, Levinyer, Amelia.

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Friday January 31, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, LS11 5NQ

Marita is 31. I sent her a birthday card picturing football boots and a pint of beer. This afternoon we went out 'en famille' to the YEB to pay for our new space-age vacuum cleaner. We pottered around the shops but were nithered with cold. Blue extremities, &c. W.H. Smith's, Boots, the building society, Greenhead's, Mothercare, &c. Samuel, in his yellow suit, raised a few smiles toddling through the Bond Street Centre. He sat in one of those small trains wherein one inserts 10p, but he was forced out after one go by a mob of ______ hooligans. I love book shops, but Samuel prevents any serious browsing. The letters of Ann Fleming look like a good publication. Published letters and diaries are really my scene. Ann Fleming is of course a Charteris, sister of Laura Duchess of Marlborough, and a former wife of  the late Viscount Rothermere, and then widow of Ian Fleming. 

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Thursday January 30, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, LS11 5NQ

Cold, but no more snow. My bloody driving test. Went out with Ally this morning. Silly really as I've been a capable driver for years. We went to Harehills where to my horror and dismay I am told that the test has been cancelled due to the bad road conditions. What a let down. Totally deflated. I suppose I should have phoned. My test is now postponed until July

We went on to Linfood and Club Street (see yesterday's entry).

We returned to the Moorhouse at 11:30pm Samuel, wide-eyed, wrapped in a tartan rug. 

How is this for a disgusting complement? "I'd use her shit for toothpaste". I heard a customer say this in the back bar while looking at the TV personality Anneka Rice. He then took a sip of his ale and said: "I'd let her shite on my chest just to see the flaps of her arse working." Nice.

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Wednesday January 29, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, LS11 5NQ

Shuttle, Shuttle, Shuttle. But it makes a change from Westland. To Linfood again. Some snow on the ground but nothing drastic. On to Club St at tea time for fish and chips. I bathed Samuel and he slept in our bed. We sat watching TV. I phoned Dad and Ally phoned Bessie. We have had details of some pubs for sale in today's post. The Helwith Bridge for £90,000 ono, and the Cross Streets Inn, Austwick, for £125,000. Dad says the latter is a big barn of a place inhabited only by gipsy-like fairground men. He has only been in once with Mum, and she was uncomfortable and wanted to leave even before they had a drink. Dad thinks it grossly over-priced. Our cottage is so peaceful and homely. So better to be here on an evening off and not sitting above the pub with the thudding of the jukebox coming up through the floorboards. I sat with my feet up reading about the naughty Borgias. We now have a substantial library. 

(Oh shit. Everything I have written today should have been written tomorrow. Today I worked all day. Ah, well. Snow falls.)

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Tuesday January 28, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, LS11 5NQ

We have been thinking about the future. We do this occasionally. We asked Dad if he fancied taking a 'free house' with us. He was largely silent and would not commit himself but it prompted Ally to phone a few auctioneers and asked to be added to their mailing list. Oliver, Kitchen & Flynn, and Dacre Son & Hartley, &c. We await news of some free houses with anticipation. We would like a place in the country, in some sleepy Yorkshire dale.

Dad left after breakfast to take Susie and Christopher to the Clarendon Wing for C's genital inspection. _________. They didn't come back here. We had a wedding reception in the lounge for a heavily pregnant Linda and a moustachioed Tom. Semi-Irish. A buffet, &c. A doddle. 

Tragedy. Watching TV at 5pm a newsflash interrupted the children's programme announcing the explosion and destruction of the 25th Space Shuttle mission with the loss of seven crew. Horrible scenes of the relatives of the dead watching the launch followed by the blast a minute after take-off. NASA called it a 'malfunction'. 

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Monday January 27, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, LS11 5NQ

Took an early cup of tea in for Dad and he looked bog eyed. Samuel is totally captivated leaning over the side of his cot and 'Gan Gan'. Breakfast was a repeat of the conversation we had last night which Dad had blocked from his mind. He told us, again, of the details of Guy's wedding and Uncle Leslie 'dog-house', a self-contained cell within the Blackpool guesthouse. 

A rush this afternoon. I went upstairs at 3:30 and instead of getting ready for the summit at the Emmott Arms I sat listening to Mrs T's speech on BBC2. She made a few apologies and insisted she had  not known of any leak (the Solicitor General's letter to Heseltine), and later Leon Brittan got her off the hook when he admitted that everything was his fault. The vote gave the government a massive majority but the PM's stature must have taken a knock. We left Dad, looking very sleepy, with a buoyant Samuel and went over to the Emmott Arms for probably the most long-winded meeting of managers I have ever experienced. A Mr Bullock from Huntley & Palmer's, no, Procter & Gamble, gave a deliriously lengthy oration on the wonders of his cleaning agents, and Don Whitfield and others slept in the cosy chairs. LG tried to conceal his giggles, but all in all it was drab, drab, drab. Ally and I went on to the Station Hotel, Guiseley, the Menston Arms and the Barge at Rodley. Ally's back and legs ached and wasn't receptive to the balmy atmosphere of the various hostelries. She though that because I wore a brewery tie that all eyes were upon us. Home at 11:15. Dad was abed.

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Sunday January 26, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, LS11 5NQ

Septuagesima

Full Moon

Cold. Some bright sun though. We devoured a roast chicken at luncheon before a smouldering, crackling Cary Grant film. It was a repeat of last Sunday but without the hysteria and Mussolini-like demonstration by Ally. We lounged around this afternoon and I wrestled with Samuel, who is rapidly becoming a hooligan. He is also, sadly, keen on TV snooker and claps along with the audience at the mindless antics of the likes of Steve Davis. He shouts "Balls, balls". I tend to agree.

Dad came in at 8pm popped up. He tottered in from a rum drinking session at John's pulling faces and squinting _______. I really do not like observing someone drunk when I am stone cold sober. Ally gave him coffee and later a pile of sandwiches. Dad joined me downstairs from 9 o'clock. Liz worked. Dad stood with David Howard talking about the sun and the colours to be found in the firmament above. Later we took a drink upstairs and Ally stayed up for an hour. Dad pulled out a tiny purse and gave me Mum's wedding ring. Tears rolled down his face. Lynn has the engagement ring and Sue her eternity ring. Janette is have Mum's watch.

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Saturday January 25, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds LS11 5NQ

Grandfather.

The fortunes of our dear PM are at their lowest ebb in the whole of her six years tenure of office. That is of course if the Press is to be believed. She is to make a speech in an emergency debate on Monday which could save or sink her. Leon Brittan, tail between his legs, has returned to his constituency. Paul Channon is the new Secretary of State, DTI. He is of course 'half a Guinness' - son of 'Chips' Channon and Lady Honor Guinness. Midas rich to boot. In comparison Michael Heseltine is like Stan Ogden (deceased).

Ally went shopping and bought tons of provisions. Samuel slumbered upstairs. Chris worked at lunch and Margaret and Liz worked together this evening. Atrociously quiet. I stood at the bar with a glass of lager talking to Jack Collett and his Glenda Jackson look-alike daughter, Sandra Woodcock. I gave them a plate of black pudding. Well, it is Burns Night. Albert Rhodes, my semi-rehabilitated grandfather was given life this day in 1901. I say rehabilitated because he was the father of my own father and more and more I hear Dad's fond memories of his father. He has spoken more of him since Mum's death. ______.

I am taking another driving test on Thursday January 30, 1986. Oh God.

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Friday January 24, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds LS11 5NQ

Poor Leon Brittan has had to resign from the cabinet because of this silly Westland helicopter business. The fire is getting very close to Mrs Thatcher. I had a sleepless night tossing and turning imagining a nation without Margaret Hilda at the helm. Shudders of horror. Taffy, the all-knowing Welsh punter, came in and we speculated about Tory fortunes, peering into an imaginary crystal ball. Taffy insists that Margaret will go before the next election. This isn't so. She will go on to a historic third term. We do agree however that N.B. Tebbit will be the next Tory leader. Taff says Norman Tebbit will get the sympathy vote now that Mrs Tebbit is confined to a wheelchair. A ramp up to the front door of No. 10, perhaps? One thing is certain, the Heseltines, Parkinsons and sadly now the Brittans of this world will not see high office again. I went down tonight and mixed. Sat on a stool in the tap room observing the antics of the customers there.

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Thursday January 23, 1986

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds LS11 5NQ

Ally phoned Saint Street Clinic at dawn and went for an anti-natal inspection, taking Samuel along. As she was inspected he played with buckets and swabs. ________. She was back at 4pm, feet up, for cups of tea.  We are so pleased that where our baby is going to be born has now been resolved. Another little Bradford chap. Tired and hungry. Maureen worked from 7pm, and I walked up Dewsbury Rd for fish and chips at 8:30. Ally, slumped in an armchair, watching 'Minder'. Maureen must really hate me. What with the scrapping of tip sheets (remember them?) and the supping of ale whilst working, I now have a reputation far worse than Ivan the Terrible and Genghis Khan rolled into one. I love it.

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