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.
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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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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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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Sunday after Ascension
Moorhouse Inn
Still wet. We slept late and were disturbed by the phone at 10. It was Lynn saying they would be with us in half an hour for a coffee. Ally, on the warpath, flew round the flat putting on clothes and clearing away last night's debris. They came for an hour bringing the two pink girls. Lynn doesn't look big and we deduce that she must be having a third daughter. They had no news. David has found an old Victorian fireplace. Supped coffee. Katie remains imobile.
Had a 'breakfast' at 2pm. Eggs, bacon, &c. Saw a bit of 'The Maltese Falcon' and 'The Longest Day' a film about D-Day. It seems that John Wayne has to be in every movie. Ally went off to polish the pine chest in the bedroom.
Heaving with people tonight. Jane and I very busy. Rob and Kath came in with some friends from London. It was too busy for social intercourse. Something is wrong here, surely? The Pipers are never at work. Samuel was up late. We suspect he's getting a cold. Poor mite.
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Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
Dismal and wet. Up at 8. Indecisive today. I went out for a quick walk and bought a birthday card for Bessie. She is 62 on Monday. Ally opened up in the bar for an hour and half at 11 and Samuel and I danced and sang, and we posted grandmama's birthday card. Music is important for the development of babies, right? He slept soundly after listening to Boy George and Rachmaninov. What will that tuneful combination do to him?
At 1pm we buggered off to Bradford and called on Chris and Elaine at the Red Lion. Elaine was upstairs ironing like a character on Coronation Street with lank, streaky hair. A female Michael Foot, in fact. (Who is he? You ask). The flat looked tiny after the roomy magnificence of the Moorhouse. The baby David _______. Not a bonnie baby by any means. To town and dear Club St and then home.
Marlene and Frank came tonight for an hour or two He had a bad headache (daft that. Can one have a 'good' headache?). I do like Marlene. Caught the end of 'For Pete's Sake' - a Streisand comedy.
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Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
Dismal and wet. Out of bed sluggish at 8. I concocted a fried repast for my slumbering partner in crime. We spent a couple of hours just sat the the breakfast table watching Samuel with his egg and 'gurkhas'. I prefer gurkhas to soldiers. Particularly when the bread is brown.
The boiler men have finished the central heating conversion and went away leaving the heat belting out and with thermostats fixed and out of control. The place is positively tropical. Perhaps the heat will help sell more ale. It has been a bad week for food. Nobody wants to eat at bank holiday time. Pathetic.
Ally and I went down at 8:30 and sat with Audrey and Terry. Both are making the best of Sharon's departure and seem to think she won't stick it and will be back. Terry went home pissed at 10:30. Big Brian was in again talking about 'Wilf at the Eagle'. We had no visitors. Later saw a French film about Louis XIV but fell asleep just after the arrest of Fouquet. The buzzing of the TV woke me at 1am.
Read in the DT that the Prince of Wales has been criticising the architecture of today. I agree. Most of it is monstrous. What names will go down in history for creating buildings of beauty in the 20th century? Bugger all. Come back William Kent, Inigo Jones, Sir John Vanbrugh, &c. Lutyens, now he is probably the only decent builder of this century. Blocks of glass and concrete do nothing for me. Good old Wales. You tell 'em.
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Ascension Day
Moorhouse Inn
Sun, but windy. Breakfast. Samuel sucking his brown bread fingers in egg yolk, but he doesn't touch the white.
Arthur Scargill's arrest dominates the news. It is what he has been waiting for of course. The man loves telling us that we live in a police state and the coverage of his arrest only gives the publicity he craves. Mrs T is behaving admirably and will not become involved in the coal dispute - yet.
The Queen Mother is in Guernsey. The Princess of Wales has now finished her last public engagements before the birth of her September baby.
Lunchtime was busy. Just Margaret and I. Ally did food of course. Maureen opened up at 5:30 and I slept on the sofa like Stan Ogden of blessed memory. Or is he still with us? A domestic evening. Ally did some ironing and we watched 'Crossroads', 'Emmerdale Farm' and 'Top of the Pops', &c. The sound of cracking pool balls from the tap room below, the slapping of naked flesh and raucous, drunken wails. One becomes accustomed to it after a while.
Samuel's bathtime has become an increasingly wet experience and so tonight we put him in the big bath. To bed with toasties.
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| The Moorhouse Inn. |
Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
More sun. A partial eclipse of the sun this evening, but it avoided doing it over Leeds. Slept until almost 8am. Felt awful. Samuel had wailed throughout the night and found no solace whatsoever. Ally like a mad woman. I forgort to report - we had a stocktake yesterday. A £48 surplus. This is good. Mind you, I do worry about young Thompson, the stocktaker. He has gone platinum blonde and there he was bending over the beer barrels doing his count looking very much like the late Diana Dors.
Dray day. Got next to nothing because I ordered too much last week. The dray men told me tales of the insane landlord at the Red Lion, Leeds. The boiler men are still in the cellar, but say they might finish tomorrow.
A warm, summers afternoon. Ally took Samuel across the park to the shops. He lay in his pram with his tubby legs wide apart and slept throughout. He is sitting watching me now (as I write) with dinner all over his face, spreading his naked toes, no flexing them, in the afternoon breeze wafting through the open window. What a beautiful thing is a child.
Just Karen worked tonight. Maureen McNicol, our dear cleaner, is 44 today. People bought her endless vodkas. She got into a slanging match with Edna's estranged son-in-law and blows were almost exchanged. I was told to fuck off. Dear me.
News: Arthur Scargill has been arrested outside a steelworks. Shoot the bugger. That's what I say. Lord Glamis, heir to the Earl of Strathmore, and scion of the house of Bowes Lyon is betrothed to a certain Isobel Weatherall. Is she perhaps a younger sister of Catherine Weatherall now Mrs Nicholas Soames?
Moorhouse Inn
Sunshine. A hot, cloggy day. Samuel has had a boiled egg with soldiers for breakfast and sipped from a cup. He held the toasted fingers himself and sucked them into pulp. He does love to squeal. Ought we to discourage this? The modern way is to discourage nothing, I suppose.
Surprise, surprise. In walked Mum, Dad, Sue, Pete, Christopher, Jim, Margaret and Julie, full of fun and looking for a party. Sue is brown and fat and showing no signs of bringing forth her latest offspring. Christopher is bigger. It's funny to see a child with teeth and hair. We are so used to Samuel's gummy baldness.
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| Dave Howard's card .... |
Quiet night. Just Jane. Sharon Egan is leaving home. Nourishing Strong Stout drinker David (Howard) has lost his printing business in an arson attack. He looked sick.
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Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
Bank Holiday in the UK & USA
It's the nastiest, coldest Whit since 1954 say the weather boffins and subsequently nobody wants to drink cold ale. Jane worked. (Audrey is on holiday this week). No word from Sue. If she gives birth today to a son he will have to be Eric Morecambe Nason, so let's hope she'll hang on until tomorrow.
Later. We lounged until 7. It's the thing to open late when we have an extension at the end. The 6 o'clock news reveals that Reginald Bosanquet is dead too. He had cancer. Eric Morecambe Bosanquet Nason?
Jill, Tim, Karen and Steve came in. Steve bespectacled. A stoppyback. Jill, in great form. We drank Tia Maria with fresh cream floated. Naughty but nice. We climbed around on buffets and other pub furniture. The Sandersons left earlier, but Jill and Tim stayed until daybreak at 4am. Aaarrgghhhh!
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Rogation Sunday
Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
Pissed down all day. Quiet. What is Rogation Sunday? Do we all rogate? Lasagne for lunch. Alice in Wonderland on the TV. Hate it. Played with Samuel and we bathed him at 5 o'clock. Why does he always wake up in such a panic? Read about Jean Shrimpton in one of the Sunday magazines. She has a hotel in Cornwall now.
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Moorhouse Inn Sandy (left) and chum. My first guinea pig, Sandy, was born 20 years ago today. Blimey, what a brain I have. What a memory. O...
