Friday January 30, 1987

 Moorhouse Inn, &c

It was 'one of those days'. We were still complaining about the relief couple when I noted that a Bacardi bottle on the optics looked odd so much so that I took it down and found  another bottle from the cellar to compare. My worst fears were realised. They have watered down the spirits. Not only are Golding & Jones squalid they are also thieving bastards. Ally phoned LG who wasn't in, and spoke to Mr Cawood, who showed some concern and said he will inform LG on Monday. What else in our tavern is let down with Co2? The mind boggles. Clementine was a picture today sitting in her pram and giggling, playing at peeping and chewing her toy keys. Baby has actually slept better. The screaming banshee of County Durham is now a blue-eyed slumbering cherub. Aly took Sam to a pet shop to buy seed for Reg (the budgie) and to a wallpaper shop (??) and to the local old people's home which he calls 'the pantomime' because he remembers the Christmas 'do' they laid on for the kids at nursery - "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs". Tonight. I opened at 6pm. Oh, and yet another cigarette machine 'vanished' last week, and Tony Cheetham has been openly selling cigs in the Junction this very afternoon. I phoned the police today and the policeman involved will contact me tomorrow. I want 'Cheesy' behind bars. He is of course the father of Mary Knight's granddaughter. Anyway, at 8 in walked 'Cheesy' and I immediately clotched him. He went away threatening to raise the establishment to the ground calling me a 'dick head' as he left. Then, Gabrielle's French mother phoned to say the girl had just fainted and would be unable to work tonight. Just Mags in. Ally came down looking lovely. And so a pleasant time.

From the Daily Telegraph: Maj Hugh Charles Lyttelton Lindsay, 9th/12th Royal Lancers, is engaged to Sarah Patricia Brennan.

Eva, Countess of Rosebery, who has died aged 94, was the key figure in the founding of the Edinburgh International Festival after the 1939-45 War ... &c.

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Thursday January 29, 1987

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds LS11 5NQ

A historic day. Michael Lawrence, dear reader, went to a blood transfusion centre and did give up - nay sacrifice - a pint of his precious blood - so that others might live. Dad will be so chuffed. He's a gold medallist having donated blood for 30 years. It was a day of slagging off the Golding and Jones couple. Margaret Rushton was in tears at their behaviour. The woman was knocking back the brandy and Babychams before 11 o'clock. Gabrielle reports that the intoxicated couple were swearing, fighting and beating the hell out of each other one night. Taking holidays in this business are simply not worth it. Our flat is very tacky today. None of the doors fit in their casings. The walls are awash and stained with beer. Roy Barnes warned me that she (the relief) would be hitting the bottle. Just Ally and I tonight. Alan had a quiz game.

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Wednesday January 28, 1987

 Waltergarth, Horton-in-Ribblesdale

We got up at 6:30 and had a cooked breakfast with Dad, who has this off to a fine art. Clemmie ate crusts of brown bread with relish. I had a very 'thick' head and slumped over the table. I always return from holiday looking half dead. We left at 8. Dad is going to the dentist at Rawdon and then on to Cambridge to his brother John and Sheila's. He has drawn to his brothers and sister and to our detriment. It's not jealousy by any means, but I think that in his grief he has returned to his childhood affections, those that are pre-Nora. I suppose this is normal. We drove back to Leeds. Ally the only conscious occupant of the car. Back to the Moorhouse at 9:30. Our departing stock take was £148 up. Phew. Ronnie didn't come until 10:45. The relief managers Golding & Jones have a £124 deficit. They were filthy pigs. The flat is very shabby. The catering kitchen absolutely filthy, covered in grease and fungus. Rotting veg, &c. Their bed was still made up. This is unprecedented. Even Ron Brook stripped the beds of dirty linen. Cig ends everywhere. The house plants dead. The washing machine damaged. No doors now close properly. Filthy cloths everywhere. How disgusting. Ally is livid and went on about them all day. The cash was wrong and fiddles abound. Watered down orange juice &c. The optics had been tampered with. Funny to be back, really. Tom Kennedy and Pat Johnson died last week. Margaret Rushton has ducked out of work a few times. Margaret M says she didn't see 'eye to eye' with 'Bonnie' Jones. Jack Collett told me that barmaid Gabrielle wants to quit. Samuel was hysterical al day. No nursery. Clemmie screamed all day too, and did so until 11:45pm/ I had a haircut at 4pm.

Dead: Sir Ian Auld Mactaggart, Bt, on January 27. 

From the Telegraph: "That plaintive publication Singles, offers this month the following catch: "Sagittarian, 46, divorced, fleeced, limp [walks with], failing eyesight, been doctored, shares Quasimodo's tailor, bitter, temporary mysogonist, recently mugged, answers to the name Lucky. Requires pleasant , slim lady, 35-40, to restore faith in women ... Sense of humour and bike essential."

Letter to the Editor: Question of Degree

Sir- Can anyone explain why the media use Centigrade for temperatures in the winter [still below zero etc] and Fahrenheit in the summer [80 degrees - phew what a scorcher!] - Robert Salter, Kenley, Surrey.

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Tuesday January 27, 1987

 Bradley Burn, Co Durham

Clemmie and Teddy.

We packed and left Bradley Burn at 12. Our electricity bill was £23 which Mrs Stephenson was over the top, but we thought reasonable. We said goodbye to the cat that has the continuing hanging out tongue. Aids, perhaps? We drove via Barnard Castle to Richmond, Aysgarth, Hawes and to Horton-in-Ribblesdale for 3pm. Dad was pottering around cooking a meal with the radio blasting at full throttle. He is so eccentric these days. He infuriated Ally and I and I was 'on edge' for some reason. We hear of Arnold's funeral. A packed crem. Someone stood up and read "If" by Rudyard Kipling. Dad weeps at this poem at the best of times. Arnold kept a journal and it revealed that only a few days before his demise he wrote that when he eventually collapsed that no 'do gooder' would resuscitate him. He wanted to go, I think. This death has hit Dad very badly. We ate and then put the children to bed. Samuel proud in a large double bed in his own room. We sat watching 'Goldfinger' drinking the remnants of our whisky. We bought Dad underwear for Christmas and he had to bugger around swapping the items at Debenham's. He disappeared into his room and then emerged clad in the garments to give us a fashion display. Ally averted her eyes. We went to our beds at 10:30. Clemmie was a piglet and refused to sleep. She is sitting up now, by the way.

News from the Daily Telegraph: The Duke of Kent yesterday took the oath of allegiance in the Lords to enable him to be the Duke of York's sponsor when he is introduced in the House.

Mr Younger, Defence Secretary, confirmed to MPs last night that he had set up an inquiry into the leaking of a letter from Prince Philip to the Commandant-General of the Royal Marines about Prince Edward's resignation from the Corps.

The Marquess of Huntly, who has died aged 78, was premier Marquess of Scotland and did homage on behalf of the marquesses at the Coronation of King George VI in 1937.

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Monday January 26, 1987

 Kilmacolm to Bradley Burn

We went back to Durham where Samuel requested fish and chips in newspaper by the river. He loved the experience and so did I. Clemmie had a mad morning in her pram and so our visit was as pleasurable as the one on Tuesday. Home via a car wash at Crook - Sam's face was a picture. Dined on trout (me) and steak (Ally) tonight, but Clemmie wailed throughout. The joys of parenthood. Candlelit dinners are not what they were. 

Society engagements: The Earl of Dundonald and Beatrice Russo, and the Earl of Macduff and Caroline Bunting.  In the Daily Telegraph we are told that "two million Britons could be dead or dying from Aids by the turn of the century, according to a report by Dr Martin Schweiger, a community physician working in Leeds". 

Cannon Law: overheard the other day in Canterbury Cathedral: an American tourist making enthusiastic inquiries about the cathedral's history. "And where exactly," he asked, "was Thomas a' Becket shot?"

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Sunday January 25, 1987

 Kilmacolm

3rd Sunday after Epiphany

Lynn is very flippant about Aids. "Oh, it's no concern of mine." She tore up the government leaflet on the disease without reading it, for instance. I do not subscribed to this. In ten years time she will have two teenage daughters, juices flowing, and open to danger. It's no joke. We went to the park in Kilmacolm. Not like Scotland in the Stranraer sense, more like Harrogate. David has selected a good spot for his new erection, surrounded by mature Scots pines. However, a council estate looms at the rear. "I suppose they have to live somewhere", said Lynn, in a Marie Antoinette sort of way. She isn't a snob in the way that I am. She doesn't approve of private education, for instance. "All that gingham", she sniffed. We bid our farewells and left at 1pm. A long journey. Samuel wet his pants and walked around Alston, legs akimbo, in obvious discomfort. Back to the cottage for 5 o'clock after several stops for milk, papers, &c. Ally totally exhausted took to her bed at 8:30 after "At Bertram's Hotel" part 1 by A. Christie (Dame). I lingered with the Sunday mags and a drink. Clemmie did her 'Sarah Bernhardt routine' well into the small hours.

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Saturday January 24, 1987

 Kilmacolm

with Sam at Largs.

The garlic bread continues. Tea in bed - a luxury. Joined by Frances and Katie - the latter with china blue eyes like my dead mum. Went downstairs to a 'full-English'. Ally and I were laughing amidst the bedding at the way Lynn was talking to David, who had alighted into the bathroom shower at peak bathroom time, 9am. "You're a joke, David", she ejaculated. It was reassuring for Ally, who said: "See. I am not the only one to nag". The vacuum cleaner was humming before I climbed out of bed. 'Houseproudaphilia'. To Largs. Fog. Looked at Tay sites. Fed large, ugly swans. Discussed condoms. Had lasagne. Sitting room session this evening. Whisky bottle. TV. Whisky. Dame Edna Everage's 1984 TV chat show. More condom talk.

Daily Telegraph obit: "Dame Ann Parker Bowles, who has died aged 68, was Chief Commissioner of the Girl Guides from 1966 to 1975 and ably led the movement through the only significant changes since its foundation. She received the Silver Fish, the highest award, in 1969."

Daily Telegraph: "From the Bournemouth Evening Echo. "A blaze ripped through a Bournemouth store early today causing damage estimated at £10,000. The cause of the fire, at Harpers, Westover Road, is still being investigated ... a clairvoyant at the store George Lucas, said he did not predict the blaze because 'Sunday's are my day off.'"

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Friday January 23, 1987

 Granary Cottage, Bradley Burn

Kilmacolm.

Spent the morning preparing to travel to Scotland. Packing the car took Ally hours. Of course, I am not allowed to touch any of the packing. Ally is very fastidious about the positioning of things in the car boot. We left at 12. (David B's detailed map having arrived today by post). We crossed to Carlisle and then up the motorway to Glasgow and on to Kilmacolm, where Lynn and Dave have lived since November 26, 1986. David, an architect with Tay Homes, has now 'metamorphisised' into a company director of Tay Homes (Scotland). They staying only temporarily in a large but cowboy erected converted house on the Tay Homes estate within view of the site where they are to build David a large detached house of his own design. What luck, eh? They look affluent. Lynn has a short 'Sheena Easton' haircut and wears leather gear.________. The children are lovely. Thomas is a bundle of trouble. Samuel, yet again, is ecstatic. We ate shepherd's pie. Lynn has discovered garlic bread. David came in at 6 and when all the children were bedded we sat and watched TV. 'Papillon (1973). We had such a good discussion. The first in years. Guiseley was obviously too close.

A Daily Telegraph obit for Sir Graeme Finlay 'the distinguished jurist who has died aged 69, may have the melancholy distinction of being the last person ever to be created a baronet.'

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Thursday January 22, 1987

 Granary Cottage, Bradley Burn

Durham Cathedral.

A bright, crisp sort of day. We went to Durham. Our first visit to this ancient city and we were very impressed. We had never imagined it to be old, walled, and dominated by a cathedral. We were expecting something like Barnsley. Samuel was full of himself and excited by the adventure. We took him into the cathedral where he proceeded to give a guided tour to a bemused pair of students. We closely inspected the tomb of St Cuthbert, and fondled several marble memorials. Sam took a shine to an effigy of the Duke of Wellington's brother. The only fly in the ointment is the knowledge that David Jenkins is the Lord Bishop herein. He is such a toe-rag. We took to the shops. The Swan and Three Cygnets, a Sam Smith's house hugging the river seemed desirable. The city crawls with students which must be good for barrelage. We sat on a damp bench near the river throwing chunks to the gulls. Samuel insisted on calling them 'gulls'. I am no ornithologist. We phoned Susan from a coin box in the cloisters of the cathedral to be told that Papa is at Hilda and Tony's. We wanted the route to Kilmacolm spelling out to us. You know what we are like with our poor sense of direction. Phoned Lynn too, but was cut off.

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Wednesday January 21, 1987

 Granary Cottage, &c

Mild day. Some sunshine. I now sit and eat breakfast with trepidation. Will Mrs Stephenson, the Angel of Death, come across in her wellies, with more tales of doom and gloom? This morning we went to Stanhope and Eggleston, over the moors, and down to Barnard Castle and to Prestos. Shopping in the high street. Samuel kept escaping. Back for 2. Sam and I cleaned the car, and he kicked a cat around the yard. Such a bully.

Poor Uncle Arnold was cremated at Elland at noon. _____. I did think of my poor Rhodes cousins.

A letter in the Daily Telegraph from Brian J. Dunleavy, in Cardiff, caught my eye: "I am reminded of a comment made by a German journalist during the Yorkshire Ripper trial. 'Why is it in your country that when you talk to God you call it praying and when he talks to you you call it schizophrenia..."

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Tuesday January 20, 1987

 Granary Cottage, Bradley Burn

Roy.

At 11 we set off for Middlesbrough where we found the Linthorpe Hotel demolished. A total ruin. The pub is trading from the tap room only and clouds of cement dust wafted across the Cleveland skies. Saw the barmaids Sally (just sacked), Rose and Carol. Roy was upstairs with Tim (ex relief, see 1983), who left as we arrived. Roy is such a character. He gave us coffee and we discussed business. Over Christmas and New Year he took £35,000. Oh, God. Marie was in Darlington sorting out Mags, who has left Mr Gaskin, taking with her the eight month old Sarah-Jane, &c. Sam played with Sam, the dog, and Saxon, who is an evil canine and was soon locked away in the kitchen. On to Yarm shopping. Phoned Dad at Janette's. He's going to Arnold's funeral with John & Janette. Uncle John is home from Lanzarote. Harry and Bert are attending too. A proper reunion.

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