Tuesday October 8, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Cold. One of the tabloids says Prince Andrew has a new love in the shape of theatrical assistant Mandy Gough, 24.

Tebbit: skeletal.

Rose at 7. The decorators who arrived yesterday are battling on outside. It has been in an unfinished state since they first came in June. The British workman is no more. Lunch. Watched Norman Tebbit's speech at the Tory conference. V. good. Standing ovation, &c. The PM seemed to grimace somewhat at his endless attacks on the opposition. Margaret never seems to resort to personal attacks as other leaders seem to do. Norman seems very skeletal and has list some vigour. Viscount Whitelaw is like an eighteenth century squire. Like Lord North. Rob Piper came here. Pale. Full of cold. Moaning about the Butcher's (pub). He fancies a move. Things there are stale. He has been at Pudsey for two years yesterday. Ally weak at the knees and near to collapse. We played with Samuel this afternoon. I went down (to work) at 5:30 and came back at 11 to find my wife abed and out cold. Did the tills and watched the Tory conference on 'News Night'. The PLO have hijacked an Italian cruiser and are sailing for Port Said. It's too complicated to even think about.

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Monday October 7, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Ducal jailbird.

Horribly quiet. A furore about Sara Keays sniping. More importantly a PC was stabbed to death in Tottenham last night during one of those ludicrous riots. The locals are inflamed by Trots and Marxists, &c. Shoot the swines, say I. Sir K. Newman was on the news, looking pale, saying he may have to use plastic bullets. My God. Any European police force would have used CS gas and water cannon long ago. What a mess we are in. Enoch Powell wasn't entirely misplaced in his outburst in 1968. The Duke of Manchester is probably going to become the first ducal jailbird since the days of the Wars of the Roses when his court case comes to an end. 'Ermine at the Scrubs' ~ a good title for his future memoirs. We went with Dad to Lynn's at 4. No mention of Davis's 'snip'. I think she thinks I have strong views on the subject. Absolutely not. David Baker's testicles are his own affair. We left at 4:45. Dad to Sue's for the night. Ally worked the bar 5:30 to 8pm. I bathed Sam and did the Barbara Barnes routine.

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Sunday October 6, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

18th Sunday after Trinity

Rain. That pleasant snatch of Indian summer has gone. How lucky we were. Dad, Sam and I went to the cellar after breakfast to 'bottle up'. Dad singing loudly throughout. Afterwards I stuffed the chicken and looked at the Sunday Telegraph. The ghastly Sara Keays is publishing her memoirs next week to coincide with the Tory conference at Blackpool. The bitch. How evil can you get? You would think that because she has a little daughter she would want the whole sordid, sorry mess to be forgotten. The strumpet that she is. However, the PM was right in not re-calling Cecil Edward (Parkinson). Perhaps in '87 after the third victory? A book review of Nancy Mitford's biography. I wonder why they didn't get Aids in the 1930s? They were all as bent as nine bob notes. Sir William Heseltine is to become the Queen's private secretary from April, 1986. He's been the deputy since '77. An Aussie, no less. Robert Fellowes moves up from assistant to deputy. This afternoon I watched the 'omnibus' edition of 'Eastenders' much to Dad's chagrin. He isn't a soap opera buff by any means.  We had roast chicken at 3:30 washed down with a cheeky wine. Ally looks washed out and no doubt __________. An evening upstairs with a steaming TV. Watched a play ('Thunder Rock') which bored the pants off Ally and then watched Melvyn Bragg interview Sir Alec Guinness, that retiring yet genius thespian. Dad wasn't morose. Sam is captivated by him. To bed.

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Saturday October 5, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Against our better judgement we drove over to Guiseley at 3:30 knowing full well that Papa was due to come here and that our cars might pass on the way. We stopped at Grandways in Horsforth for a 5lb chicken and took a bunch of pink carnations to the cemetery where I stood looking blankly at that mound of un-turfed earth holding Mum's remains. ____ There is plaque (temporary) proclaiming 'Nora Rhodes'. We arranged the flowers and Samuel took handfuls of green marble chippings from another grave and scattered them. Ally was cross, but I explained that the long-dead occupant of the grave wouldn't mind at all. Poked at the earth and came away with dirty finger nails. To Lynn's. No mention of David's 'snip'. Sue is working at Harry Ram
sden's. To Leeds at 5. Dad was in the carpark reading the Daily Telegraph in the car. We went in and had a stodgy, fried tea. We looked at holiday snaps. In the bar tonight we were joined by Geoff & Phyllis. Much talk of organs (the musical variety). Dad is so sad. He actually said that when the low flying jets come over Horton-in-Ribblesdale he prays that one will come down on Waltergarth and finish him off. He cannot see how he can go on living alone. Awful.

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Friday October 4, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

The Moorhouse

Now we are back it's as if we have never been away. Nobody ever tells us anything about the activities of Mr Brook, and a curtain of secrecy descends. Who cares? Just had a chuckle at 'Private Eye'. Auberon Waugh's Diary is a wheeze. The so-called 'leg over' situation between Princess Anne and her randy personal detective features. Mrs Thatcher should set up a royal commission to inquire into this important matter immediately, he says. They do say that 'Private Eye' isn't well received at Buckingham Palace, where 'Punch' is in favour. I cannot see why. Phoned Papa. He was decorating the 'pink room' and immediately he became choked and overcome with emotion. I was left holding a silent phone. These sudden attacks of desperation sweep over him and cannot be controlled or anticipated. He can be in a supermarket queue, on a muddy playing field, or watching TV. Poor Dad. What can we do to help him? He is coming here tomorrow after calling on Susie and Lynn.

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Thursday October 3, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

White slob in a hole.

I am rapidly sinking towards corpulence. Gone is that sylph-like figure of yesteryear. The adonis is no more. Looking at our holiday snaps it was a shock to see a large white slob smiling up from a hole on the beach and having to admit 'God. It's me'. Something will have to be done. It is a hideously unhealthy 20th century. We live in one of the most unhealthy countries in the world. People bulging everywhere. More fibre is what we need. Wholemeal flour and apples and fresh vegetables. I blame the rise of the supermarket. A dreadful killer. We are still reeling from David's vasectomy shock horror. Dad was very non-committal about it and almost embarrassed when I phoned last night. 

Rose at 7am. To the cellar. Light breakfast at 8 and then up to Grandways with Samuel on foot at 9:30. We stood and laughed at the window display at the wool shop on Dewsbury Rd which had a clockwork grandma knitting in a rocking chair as a window piece. Such a giggle. How delightful toddlers are. So innocent and amusing. Totally priceless. These days should never be forgotten. Last week at Budleigh Salterton an OAP approached Sam and I on the cliffs , and gasping with tears in his eyes he said: "treasure these days, my love, for these are the best days of your life". _____. Quiet lunch. Ally ironing. Nothing on the TV but Neil Kinnock. Poor Auntie Hilda and Kinnock have the same birthday. How awful.

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Wednesday October 2, 1985

 5, Club Street, Lidget Green

A glossy holiday snap.

Up at 7. Planted two rose trees with Sam's assistance. One was called 'Elizabeth of Glamis'. I suppose it's a small podgy flower that waves regally in the wind. On to the Moorhouse for 9 o'clock. Ron Brook, in a crimson track suit, looking like a bag of nerves. The stock take gave him a £35 deficit. LG came and we checked everything. Les has diarrhoea and cannot sample the ale. Ally and I went shopping and did the pub lunches afterwards. The place is stone dead. We are determined to turn over a new leaf and be organised. Sam and I went out for a walk at 3:30 while Ally sorted the place. We escaped the Labour party conference on the BBC to go to the park and investigate the motorway bridge. Later we collected two of our holiday films. Glossy snaps of blue skies and Sam on a pebbled carpet. What a good time we had. Memories that will last forever. Sam, out of his high chair, ate jammy sandwiches watching the six o'clock news. The BBC theme tune is a particular favourite of his. Kinnock, Kinnock, Kinnock, &c. Some upstart called Derek Hatton dominates. Rock Hudson has died from Aids at 59. Dickie Henderson died of cancer last week aged 62 _______. Quiet evening. Margaret worked. No major news here. It is Andrea's birthday. Poor Scottish Dave (or was it English Dave?) was buried on Monday, three weeks after his tragic, early demise. Phoned Dad. He's coming at the weekend.

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Tuesday October 1, 1985

 Chillandham Cross, Itchen Abbas

Sam and his toy car.

Woke feeling hot and groggy. I could quite easily have stayed in bed. I have bought a new paperback 'The Witches of Eastwick' by John Updike. I do hope it won't be too intellectual for my small , insignificant and child-like grey matter. Just boiled eggs at breakfast time. The three of us went down to the river. Samuel more interested by the drains than the ducks. A load of old mallards. Back at Ch. Cross Bessie was pale and shivery, but sat outside with us. Hot. You would never believe it's October. Ally did a bit of packing. Very depressing. We sat in the sun, Sam nude from the waist down following a dreadful accident. The shit oozed out all over my knees. Ally like a large, brown warthog. Little JPH was nine yesterday. We delayed leaving because Ally didn't want to travel in the blazing sunshine. We left at 4 and got home to Club St for 8. Sam was perfection in the car and he played with his new toys and sang 'Happy Birthday' loudly and with gusto. In the house we ate cheese and drank wine, whilst Samuel gave a recital on the piano. Phoned Dad who told me that Susie is ten weeks pregnant and it has been confirmed by a scan and she has seen Mr. Glass. Baby is alive and kicking and all is well. Dad was making wine and had no other news but a note of mystery crept into his voice when he said "please phone Lynn too", and he went off giggling. We immediately phoned Lynn but she had no news whatsoever. She must be waiting to see us in person to make some sort of announcement. Phoned Sue who was overjoyed. The baby is due April 28, 1986. This of course means March, April or May. Or even July. I asked her if Lynn has any happy news and she giggled and says not but added that David B had a vasectomy on Friday. He's been 'snipped'. How nauseating. It's his choice. Ally is stunned. We thought they were going for four, 2 of each, &c. Saw Kinnock on the news giving a roasting to the Left. Hopeless though. He's a puppet. Simone Signoret is dead from cancer at 64. Bed after wine at 11:30. The three of us slept together in the double bed. Sam in his posh, grown-up pyjamas.

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Monday September 30, 1985

 Chillandham Cross, Itchen Abbas

Andrew and Sam.

The warm spell continues. There's a mist at first, but probably from the River Itchen. Frank, an early riser, woke Sam early and he shouted us from his cot. His conversation has greatly improved since we came away. Another change is his hair which is beautifully blond, no doubt from the sun. Samuel and I took our constitutional down to see the ducks and we encountered a cat and a dog with whom he could converse quite clearly. He loves fauna. At the rate he's going he'll make St Francis Assisi look like a blood sports enthusiast. Looked at the Sunday (news)papers. Was too busy to do so yesterday. The diary of Sir Jock Colville covering the period 1939-55 has been published. He was WSC's private secretary and of course he was private secretary to the then Princess Elizabeth from 1947, until re-joining Churchill in '51. I must buy the volume when it appears in our book club. I love the journals of other people. Mine is quite daft really. We went into Winchester with B and spent £35 on Sam's autumn wardrobe. B bought toys galore for him. What a lucky child he is. This afternoon, while Sam was taking a nap, Ally and I went to Alresford and had a quick one in the Horse & Groom. Browsed in the books shops. Ally bought Sam a Beatrix Potter book 'The Tale of the Fierce Rabbit'. Tonight: Bessie felt off colour. A cold developing. Had an enormous dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire puds. Saw TV. Adrian Mole. Panorama dwelt on Neil Kinnock. Say no more. Ally was in Frank's study sorting some finances. Insurance, &c. Very depressing. Bed at 11.

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Sunday September 29, 1985

 Chillandham Cross, Itchen Abbas

Full Moon

17th Sunday after Trinity

Tree felling with Frank.

Very hot and very busy. I helped Frank in the garden felling trees and logging them. We worked from 10am until dusk and sweated heavily from our labours. Ally, Bessie and Sam sat in the sun with ice-creams and the paddling pool. Sam avoided me - put off by the chainsaw. Made several trips to Alresford tip with Frank. Usually a man of few words he chatted as we drove along, dressed in his overalls with twigs poking out of his pockets and ears. He is going to Kings Lynn on Tuesday and the races at Newmarket on Wednesday. He longs for the day he can retire - just two years to go. Cleverly, I have arranged for us - the four of us - to go out tonight. I fixed it with Andrew for him to babysit with Lorraine. F thinks it's an excellent idea. We went out at 8:30 to Alresford, but everywhere was closed, and we ended up in Mister Pitkins in Winchester, in the upstairs restaurant. A cosy dinner and Frank insisted on paying the bill which wasn't too steep - £36 for the four of us. Me steak au poivre, Ally beef stroganoff, Bessie sole, Frank chicken and asparagus pie. Back at 11. Lorraine had left and Andrew was in bed. To bed feeling full and sleepy.

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Saturday September 28, 1985

 South Wood Farm, Cotleigh, Devon

South Wood Farm.

Out of bed bright and early. Another sunny day. What a week we have had. Ally did the packing. I wouldn't know where to begin. Sam and I went to look at Lady, the horse, and the white pony. Farmer Williams told me that we have been lodging in the 'new' part of the farm and he took me to his back door and showed me a beam supposedly erected in 1500. I am always so very moved by history. Rubbing my hand over that ancient, battered old beam one could almost feel the past coming back. Flodden Field. Good Queen Bess. The Civil War 1642-49. Roy Jenkins, &c. Poor Farmer Williams is under the impression that everybody in Leeds is black, unemployed and suffering from Aids. 

We left at 11 and went via Dorchester to Bournemouth and up to Martyr Worthy for 2pm. Traffic bad in Dorchester. Ally was swearing and cursing. Found Frank and Bessie in the garden cutting the beech hedge. We immediately took to the deckchairs and the sweet trolley came trundling out. Samuel didn't approve of his accommodation and he wept until 9pm. Very unusual. We dined on roast lamb and watched TV. To bed with 'Lupe'. I couldn't put it down until the bitter end.

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