Monday February 25, 1980

_. Rain. I have mislaid my umbrella. I left it on the bus on Friday evening and as you'll expect it pissed down as though the world might end today.

Glynnie phoned and I told him about Pete's party on March 20. His new girlfriend is called Karen and she plays darts for Cheshire. They are going to Leicester on Saturday to a tournament. The image of a female arrow thrower doesn't conjure up a vision of Helen of Troy, but instead one thinks of a large, plain, buxom maiden with a flowery vocabulary and a large capacity for hand pulled ale. Let us hope I am wrong. Glynnie said he would have brought her to Grassington next month but she will be away in Switzerland.

Bush: prancing

The United States presidential election is on my my mind tonight. A revolting man called Bush has been prancing around in New Hampshire, in a swaggering fashion. The man is a Republican, and so I say 'VOTE VOTE VOTE REAGAN'. Yes, the former Lone Ranger, with dyed hair and a limp is the man for me. Kennedy has flopped and Jimmy Carter is romping home whilst doing absolutely nothing. He can thank the Russians for his good fortune.

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Sunday February 24, 1980

_. 1st Sunday in Lent

Ally was up and out to Lidget Green. She left me a note [here preserved for posterity]. I slept until 11:30 and then went into the garden in wellies and leather gloves to attack the remaining living rose trees.

Watched a Sunday afternoon film on the TV. One of those where Gregory Peck comes over here to save us from the nasty Hitler. Dad was at the table typing out death warrants and summonses, and Mum was knitting clothes for Catherine. A domestic scene.

Ally came at 7:30. We went to the Fox and Hounds, the Drop and the White Cross, the latter still not restored to full power following the recent fracas.

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Saturday February 23, 1980

_. I was up at 11:30 or 12 and after fried eggs and bacon I took up the shears and set about the rose trees in the garden. Dad was astonished at this because my Percy Thrower activities have been infrequent.

Horrific news from Scotland. John has been given a week's notice and he finishes with Robinson and Davidson on Friday. He isn't surprised because work has been very thin on the ground recently. He has applied for a job as a policeman at Stranraer docks. The ladies of the family went into their usual hysterics at this news. Mothers says he should never have gone there in the first place, and Lynn arrived proclaiming she had burst into tears at the news. 'The poor children will starve!' I am more optimistic. John always lands on his feet.

Foggy night. Out with Ally and Dave L to the Fox at Menston and the Albert Inn, for Dave's cockles and mussels, and finally to the Clothiers. A pleasant night. A merry trio. Afterwards we went into a fish and chip shop where a 15 year-old brat pushed his way to the front of the queue, which triggered off a fight of Afghanistan proportions. David, in the jostling that followed exclaimed: 'I know you can have scraps with your fish and chips, but this is ridiculous.' We sat at ate in Dave's car.

Ally and I returned to Pine Tops. Sat listening to Rachmaninov. Mum and Dad came back late from dinner at Jim and Margaret's.

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Friday February 22, 1980

_. Up at 7:30 feeling extraordinarily fit. At the YP I did rather well and the expected collapse into coma never came.

I do talk a lot of rubbish at times, don't I? How long have you been sat there listening to me droning on and on in endless repetition. I suppose you think life is just one long pub crawl, eh? I suppose you look upon me as a cynical, cruel and nasty buffoon? I go around spewing nasty remarks about innocent and hard working people who contribute more to the country than I ever shall. Is it only the cynical and spiteful who compile journals? Decent folk are far too busy for such a frivolous pastime, out there making the world a better and happier place. Now that I've got that off my chest I can back to scrawling. I do like to clear the air occasionally.

This evening my armchair was more like a tomb, or sepulchre. I was lifeless.

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Thursday February 21, 1980

_. Ally stayed over. At the office this morning I phoned her at the AHA. I said we should see each other tonight because the spitfire is going for it's MOT soon, and when it fails we shall be 'carless'. She agreed, and arrived at 7:30 looking deliciously huggable. Off to the Drop where we chatted like love-birds. Her eyes, like pots of cocoa, are her most impressive feature. Her hair resembles a combination of canary Ferrari yellow and a fresh haystack.

Back to Pine Tops after calling at the White Cross. Martyn and Chris R were there. As a final parting I swept the pub landlady over my shoulder and made a few laps of the bar.

Cousins: Gold medal

Sat up until 4am watching Robin Cousins win the only gold medal for Britain in the Winter Olympics. It's a bit hopeless isn't it, when the might of the British Empire places all it's hopes on the slender shoulders of an adolescent on ice? What became of the warrior spirit of our warlike Viking forebears? I do not believe the bunkum now being bandied about that Vikings never plundered, pillaged or raped, or wore those wonderful helmets with the horns attached. Yes folks, they are now saying that the 'norsemen' were sensitive and artistic, who wore lots of gold jewelry over taffeta gowns and read Bernard Levin, whilst rowing over to heathen Britain to convince us by gentle, intellectual persuasion that the Viking way was the happy way.

Anyway, I retired to bed with damp eyes following the unfurling of the Union Flag over Lake Placid and the emotive sight of little Robin Cousins sobbing in his mother's arms.

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Wednesday February 20, 1980

_. Phoned Lynn at work to check on tonight's arrangements for dinner at Lawn Road.

Returned from the YP and felt miserable watching my parents eat. Sat, starving watching the news on the telly. Nothing but the steel strike.

I have news. Judith Rushworth was married on Valentine's Day to Tim Brown, landlord of the Hare & Hounds. He's made a honest woman of her at last. Mind you, his previous wife only died in August, and so I suppose a decent lapse had to occur. Dad saw Mrs Rushworth who asked him to pass on the news to me.

Ally came here at 7:15 and we went off to Burley-in-Wharfedale calling in at an off-license for a bottle of sherry, for £1.70. Dinner was a delightful spaghetti concoction. Afterwards we sat around the fire. Home 11:30.

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Tuesday February 19, 1980

_. Shrove Tuesday

Andrew: Duke of York?

Prince Andrew is 20 today, and in a few days time they are shipping him out to the USA on naval duties. Most of our recent kings have been sailors, and surprisingly many second sons have become king. I wonder whether in time he will be Duke of York in the steps of his grandfather and then King?

I devoured the traditional fourteen pancakes for Shrove Tuesday. Poor Mama started mixing the batter at lunchtime. After tea Mum and Dad went out for a walk, supposedly to walk off the stodgy pancake day offerings. Odd. They never go walking, and to do so on a dismal, dark, February night is startling, to say the least.

I spent half an hour trying to get through to Ally on the phone. She was speaking to Bessie [her mother]. She was sweet. I rarely phone her at night. Usually I ring first thing in the morning or when she's at the AHA. It was at the forefront of my mind that she was speaking to Sailor Dave. Am I developing a jealous trait?

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