Saturday January 3, 1981

 _. High winds, rain. Woke up at 10 and switched off my alarm and slept until 12. Downstairs mother was going through her papers, settling bills,&c, and was composed after last night's upset. Dad was nowhere to be seen and was out on constabulary duties. I bathed. Ally showered. I stood looking at my face in the bathroom mirror wondering what to do about my beard. I haven't shaved since last Tuesday, and resemble a convict.

At about 2 [Ally and me] walked down the lane to look at spin dryers in Wigfall's. Mrs D is posting Ally a cheque by way of a Christmas present, and a dryer is top of the list. We found nothing suitable in this 'olde worlde' electrical appliance shop but caused a scene gasping at a news bulletin on the TV there proclaiming the death of Princess Alice, Countess of Athlone, Queen Victoria's last surviving granddaughter. The old girl would have been 98 next month. It seems that the Queen cannot get through a Bank Holiday without have to pack and head for Windsor and a family funeral.

We returned home at 3:30 bedraggled. Dined with Mum and Dad and then sat very quietly watching Sophia Loren re-enacting her own life on film. Mum and Dad were slightly subdued. It always takes them a while to recover from a bust up. Saw 'Arsenic and Old Lace'. Went to bed at 1:15.

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Friday January 2, 1981

 _. Bank Holiday in Scotland

Mum and Dad's birthday. Whilst Ally and I were back at work the rest of the family  went to Cracoe for lunch. I spent the whole day watching the clock wishing I could be with them. Ally phoned to say she'd bought a fern for Mum and Dad - a temporary present until I get some money. Oh, how I need money.

Ally met me in Guiseley at 6 and we found a full house knocking back wine at Pine Tops. Dad was drunk. They all left at about 7 so that Mum and Dad could get ready to go down to Giovanni's, but it soon became painfully obvious that Papa was in no fit staten to go anywhere. He was tottering around with an ashen face and bloodshot eyes. However, they did leave at 8, but were back within the space of half an hour. Dad staggered up to bed and Mum burst into tears, saying he has ruined her birthday.

Ally went to bed at 10:30 and I sat with Mum for two hours.

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Thursday January 1, 1981

 _. Michael Lawrence Rhodes: age 25 years, 8 months, and 26 days.

Bank Holiday in UK, Republic of Ireland, USA & Canada.

Woke up at some point in the morning still wearing my Tudor regalia, and chain of office. Dreadful, really dreadful. I have never seen Ally look so ghastly.

At 1:30 we walked in the sun to the Plough to join Graham and Gill, who were with Midge, Mel and Barbara. Mel was very drunk and he went on and on singing the praises of Margaret Thatcher. 'Our greatest leader since Churchill, or maybe even Queen Elizabeth I'. Ally, looking like death, didn't drink.

Midge, the beleaguered landlady told me I was a very good looking Henry VIII, but was most peturbed, and still reeling from the dressing down I gave her last night. Evidently I commanded her presence in the dining room to inform her that the salmon mousse wasn't up to standard.

Back to Chillandham Cross. Had roast lamb for lunch, but brought it all back two hours later. Watched 'Great Expectations' on the BBC and left at 7:30 during 'Dr Zhivago'. A hideous journey home, without a break, and back to Pine Tops for 11. To bed exhausted. 

Oh yes, a Happy New Year, to all my readers.

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Wednesday December 31, 1980

 _. To Portwood [Southampton] this morning where Ally had a fitting for a pale blue bridesmaid dress, in readiness for Graham and Gill's wedding in March. Afterwards, we had one drink in the local Berni Inn, where Ally and [John] Pinder once spent a week, and then to the home of a theatrical lady where we were kitted out with fancy dress gear for tonight. 

Back at Chillandham Cross we dressed. I was transformed into King Henry VIII, and Ally an exquisite Anne Boleyn. Graham = Wurzel Gummidge, and Gill = Aunt Sally.

At 9 to the vicarage at Kings Worthy and out with the Lynn family to a depraved do at the local rugby club where we all became horribly drunk. We arrived back at the Plough Inn at 11:45, the straw from Wurzel Gummidge's hat hanging out of my doublet and hose. A debauched evening. In my capacity as monarch I gave Scotland to Neil [the bar man], who likes sheep, you know. Other minions received dukedoms. I then knighted Neil with the command: 'Kneel, Neil'. Barbara, the alcoholic lady from Easton, took a great shine to me. I was administering Holy Communion in the dining room [using Midge's silver gravy boat filled with port and brandy] when in walked the Rev Matthew Lynn, just as Graham spewed all over the sideboard. The clergyman took it in good spirits [geddit?].

Neil, King of Scotland, and I ran the after hours bar, despite the advanced intoxication. I found Anne Boleyn, in a precariously treasonable position , fighting off the advances of Lord Nelson, on a settee. By 4am I was on the phone to France in search of an expert swordsman. I also stole all the toiletries from Midge's bathroom and hid them in my doublet. Dreadful of me. Home covered in damp ermine and feathers, dribbling Bacardi. Oh, God. See you next year.

Fin.

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Tuesday December 30, 1980

 _. To Southampton with Ally, Graham and Gill. He bought us lunch at an Italian place and afterwards we spent hours shopping for furniture. Tonight was far from alcohol free. The Plough Inn featured, but it's all very vague.

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Monday December 29, 1980

 _.Work and then to Winchester.

To the office. Hideous day. Why do we do it? Ally collected me at 5pm and we drove in good, clear conditions to Hampshire. Arrived at about 9:30. The Dixons were watching 'The Charge of the Light Brigade' on TV. Frank was in and out of the garage tinkering with Andrew's motor bike. Ate quiche and went up to bed. Ally clearly so very happy to be with her family.

Andrew, scruffier, now resembles a 1960s Hells Angel. Most disturbing.

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Sunday December 28, 1980

 _. 1st Sunday after Christmas

Sue and Pete's Christmas party. All the family attended with the exception of Maria. Sue made some good food. The drink flowed like water, but it was more of a subdued affair. I blame the surfeit of parties, the mountains of food, the shear volume of drink, &c.

To get away from the seasonal thing, I do feel sorry for poor President Carter. His four years in office must surely have been the worst four years America has experienced since the Second World War. The dramatic political situation of recent years has clearly bee too much of a strain on this humble peanut farmer with no previous political experience.

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