Easter Day
Chillandham Cross, Martyr Worthy
The baptism of Simon Thomas James Dixon.
That awful Bishop of Durham now says that Christ didn't rise from the dead at all. Isn't it just bloody marvellous? Christ wasn't the result of a virgin birth either. I suppose Pontius Pilate didn't wash his hands and that Judas Iscariot played for Plymouth Argyle.
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| Samuel at Bembridge vicarage. |
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5, Club Street, Lidget Green
Little Frances is 4. Fine day. Hideously hungover. I went and lay on Mum's bed. She was breathing very heavily as though she was fighting. She smiled and remarked that I was laid in a very similar position 30 years ago too.
We packed and left at 10:30. Samuel, so very well behaved. A jolt saying goodbye to Mum. On the journey south I was sick on the hard shoulder of the M1. Last night's steak au poivre and broccoli. To Winchester without a break. A sunny arrival at about 3pm. Bessie was gardening. We had tea and cake. She doesn't go over the top or go bananas on seeing Samuel. She believes in re-introducing herself to her grandson very gradually.
Tonight we had a turkey dinner. I phoned Dad. To bed very early.
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5 Club Street, Lidget Green, Bradford
Good Friday. My 30th birthday. Who would have ever thought it would be such a day? We woke up on the floor at Club St. Sleeping bags, &c. I took my birthday cards upstairs and we sat opening them on Mum & Dad's bed. Samuel loves singing 'happy birthday'. He always thinks it's for him. Mum's card was very touching with such weak handwriting. These anniversaries are a strain for her. The next big one is June 19. God knows what will be happening by then. I walked out to the bakery and bought two dozen hot cross buns. A good breakfast. We walked out with Samuel investigating Lidget Green. I steered clear of our usual haunt - the old cemetery.
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| My birthday visitors. |
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Moorhouse Inn
Our holiday is here. Andrew Snowden came breezing in at 9, and got in the way a good deal. His mother came too, puffing on a Woodbine. She'll be wearing the trousers. Mick Thompson did the stocktake and gave us a £15 surplus. We escaped at 1 o'clock in a packed car. Samuel buried beneath piles of clothing. To Club St. We left Samuel with Dad and went to buy Easter eggs for Mum for her grandchildren. Dad enjoys playing with Samuel.
Rain later. We watched TV. The Queen distributing Maundy Money at Ripon today.
Sit on Mum's bed. We say very little to each other. We just look. I ger choked for something to say.
Tonight we just festered in front of the TV. We watched 'Minder' and scoffing on a box of chocolates. Robin Day is ill and so another chap did 'Question Time'. Sad. We made a bed up and slept on the floor.
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Moorhouse Inn
Our last night (holiday looming). Marjorie. Quiet.
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Moorhouse Inn
I am such a dreary old pillock. I do not ask for sympathy, but you really cannot expect me to pen flowing prose. Here I am only days away from the commencement of my fortieth decade and life seems so pointless and futile. If I was in Mum's shoes I'd be so bitter and resentful. How can we all come smiling out of all this. God knows. That's if God really cares. Sometimes I do wonder.
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Moorhouse Inn
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| Club St. |
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Moorhouse Inn
Palm Sunday / British Summer Time Begins
I hate all this buggering around with the clocks. Felt tired all day. To Club St this evening to conclude the decorating. I thought we would be able to escape the pub at 9 o'clock, but by 10 we were still hard at it. I wanted to nip over to the Butcher's to look at Rob & Kath's baby. At 10:30pm Ally was complaining of feeling hungry and so I phoned the Berni Inn, but we were too late to eat. Instead we went to Giuseppi's Backyard in the centre of Bradford. We were the only customers. I had a cold trout followed by a marinara pizza washed down with a dry white wine. Ally demolished a corn on the cob. I spent my Grand National winnings. £4 in all.
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Moorhouse Inn
Grand National day. Yes, and for the second year running I won the pub sweep. Much talk of a 'fix', &c. Hilarity.
Uncle Peter phoned to say that he and Auntie Jean and Beverley want to come and see Mum this evening. She viewed this with some trepidation. I was put in a spot, but told them to come. They came at 8. Mum was propped up in bed, with subdued lighting, but she looked quite bright. Ally was watching 'Dynasty' and we pointed Peter in the direction of the lounge, and after five minutes he said: "Come on, let's go and see auntie." In they went. Mum gave them a pile of old photographs to look at, and they sat with her for half an hour. Beverley is an attractive girl - leather pants, &c. They stayed until after 12 and went back to Pudsey in a taxi. I filled Peter in on my family tree developments. Amazingly, he knew nothing.
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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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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.
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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.
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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. ___________.
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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.
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| Archie (left). |
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Moorhouse Inn
New Moon
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| Parkinson or Redgrave? |
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.
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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.
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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.
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Moorhouse Inn
The Moorhouse Inn is in mourning for poor Archibald Drummond Adams. It is unbelievable. He was 42. Madge was hopelessly weeping and by noon we had a full tap room - everyone drinking Archie's favourite Bacardi & coke, and slobbering together. _____. It is hard to imagine our tap room without Archie. He was a troublesome, loud, noisy little Scot, but he had a warm heart and an acid sense of humour which I found so refreshing. It will be a dull place without him. Jim Precious looked quite broken. Tonight they all came out of the woodwork to mourn.
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Moorhouse Inn, Leeds LS11 5NQ 5th Sunday after Trinity Bessie phoned. Andrew and Lorraine are to live in un-marital bliss in a £29,000 mais...
