Wednesday August 19, 1981

 _. The YP is becoming intolerable. My job is slowly being phased out because Kathleen is convinced that I will soon be quitting. She thinks that within twelve months I'll be gone. Much of my routine is being done by the night staff. I spend most of the day reading the national newspapers and filing the interesting stuff, pondering over the troubles in the world. Keeping a watchful eye on the current state of emergency in Sri Lanka.How many people out there are mourning the loss of Jack Coia, the Scottish architect of Italian extraction? 

Black Hole:

Just what is the point in anything? We are led to believe, in a report in one of the papers, that the Universe will be catapulted into a Black Hole in 50 million years time, and when that happens what will it all have been about? Why did God go to all the trouble of creating Leonardo Da Vinci just to send everything he created into oblivion, along with Wren's St Paul's Cathedral, Alan Whicker and the Petit Trianon? Blimey, Michael. Go pour another coffee. Taking up another newspaper I see that that reporters have caught up with the Prince and Princess of Wales on Deeside, and both say married life is marvellous and highly recommended. I tend to agree with this sentiment.

Can I discuss Ally's face-pulling gurning ritual? Each morning my darling wife accompanies me to the door and kisses me goodbye, and then, when I look back over my shoulder, I see her face, pressed up against the little bottle-bottomed glass window in the door, hideously gurning, her face contorted in some horrific grimace. And with each passing day the facial postures grow steadily worse. I lay awake in the night, sweating, my mind racing: what horrific apparition will send me to my daily labours in the morning?

Home at 6. We had a peculiar quiche with some chips. It wasn't quite like Ally intended. Later, wallowed in the bath. Ally, wearing my pullover, doing the ironing. Afterwards we shared an orange and watched an American disaster movie. The characters in these films are always so vile you want them to die anyway, and so some of the suspense is diluted.

Are you bored of reading this? Gone are the days of spice and degeneracy. You heart no longer pounds at my tales of bawdy exploits. It's gone from depravity to homely regularity. Goodnight.

-=-

Tuesday August 18, 1981

 Wet first, dry later. Dead at the YP. Home at 6. Dumplings. 

[As I write the above gripping entry Ally is sitting on the floor, atop a large cushion, thumbing through The Times passing remarks as she does so, such as : 'Shelley Winters is fifty nine today', and then, taking up the Yorkshire Post she giggles at a leading article entitled 'The Irish Albatross'.]

Later: we watched two films, the names of which escape me. One featured Jack Hawkins, in ancient Egypt. An epic from 1955 co-starring Joan Collins. Then Burt Lancaster and Virginia Mayo in a Robin Hood-type swashbuckling drama.

Ally took a volume of P.G. Wodehouse to bed with her. 

-=-

Monday August 17, 1981

 _. Up at 7. Sat dangling my legs out of bed whilst Ally tempted me downstairs rattling the pack of crunchy oat puffs. A sort of Pavlov and his dogs routine.

Sophie: low profile.

At the YP I sat with the nationals [newspapers] and the Sunday papers. 5,000 turned up at Balmoral yesterday to see the Prince and Princess of Wales go to church at Crathie. A distant cousin of the Queen, Prince Charles von Thurn und Taxis, is putting it about that the Queen should restore the Dukedoms of Cumberland and Albany, removed from the Roll by King George V in 1919. [They were on the wrong side in the Great War]. Another report in one of the Sunday [papers] discussed Prince Philip's sisters who, forty years after the Second World War, are still enforced to keep a 'low profile' when visiting the UK, and remain almost in obscurity. Philip's sister, Sophie of Hanover, stayed at Windsor for the Royal wedding, and was apparently seen waving at the Queen in St Paul's Cathedral.

Sarah is being driven insane by the behaviour of 'Mrs Slocombe'. The latter is constantly humming some indefinable and nameless tune as she swans around the office like Madame de Pompadour. Just a nasty habit, or a mental disorder?

Phoned Mum. Sue was violently sick this morning. And no letter from their solicitor. Gloom. She has, however, phoned Wallace Arnold today, and they have two spare seats on a coach tour to Yugoslavia. I do hope they go. She told me that Christine Airey is expecting a baby in February.

Phoned Ally from behind yesterday's Observer, but Derek Jenkins was 'playing up' and so she left in a hurry.

Home at 6 to a fish concoction preceded by a decidedly weak carrot soup. Dave Porritt came at 6:30 and collected the wedding video. He is always so nervous and hyperactive. He scurried around and fled to his car still quietly talking as his car sped out of Club Street.

Dave G phoned this evening. Jim is out of hospital and confined to his room at the Hollywood [Hotel]. Dave is relieved to have him home. It's all on for next Saturday.

-=-

Sunday August 16, 1981

 _. 9th Sunday after Trinity

Warm & sunny. Ally was awake just after 8. She says it's impossible for her to move in bed without me noticing.

I ate my oat puffs for breakfast and then continued with the painting activities until noon. The sitting room [which is in fact the only room] is now bathed in a golden glow.

Savile: dreadful.

Sat with salad sandwiches listening to the dreadful Jimmy Savile on Radio 1. Pompous buffoon that he is.

Over to Guiseley at 3:30 with a bottle of sherry and box of 'After Eight' mints. It was good to see Mum, who was looking well and tanned. Papa was out on constabulary duties hunting down 'hit and run' drivers on his bicycle.

We lounged in deckchairs in the garden. Sue & Pete came at 5. She looks better and larger. Dined at 6. Roast chicken, Yorkshire puddings, broad beans, marrow, &c. All washed down with wine.

After dinner Dave Porritt arrived with his video machine and we watched the glorious events of June 27. More than a little nauseating to hear our own voices. We watched the 20 minute epic three times.

-=-

Saturday August 15, 1981

 _. A day of activity. We were awakened at 9 by the postman delivering a batch of photographs. We nestled beneath our quilt inspecting the snaps. For breakfast we had sausages, eggs and toast, &c. I was somehow cornered into demolishing a bookcase, and after a hideous re-assembling session which was reminiscent of a Laurel & Hardy film, I was daubing gold/oyster paint onto two of the walls. Painting is such much needed therapy. 

Phoned Mum this evening. She is annoyed, or at least sounded so, that Ally and I haven't been to Pine Tops in two weeks. She's very touchy. When I referred to Pine Tops she snapped back: "Why can't you call it home?" I have never called it 'home' and always call it Pine Tops. Dave Porritt is bringing the wedding video to Mum's tomorrow evening so that we can have a 're run' of our great day. We're dining at Guiseley. I didn't repeat any of Mum's negativity to Ally.

Later we had fish and chips and gallons of tea. I'm unsure about the decorating. It's like being inside a giant banana. 

News: More riots in Liverpool. Shoot the buggers, that's what I say. The Prince and Princess of Wales flew to Scotland from Egypt to join the Queen at Balmoral.

Later: watched two horror films that took us through until 1:30am.

-=-

Friday August 14, 1981

 _. I didn't feel too good all day. It took me until 5pm to recover. Kathleen gave me a couple of paracetamol tablets. Raging headache until 6.

Stonehouse Inn: £80,000

Saw in the YP that a Mr Ian Taylor, of Skipton, has bought the Stonehouse Inn for something in the region of £80,000. I was my hideous and painful duty to phone Mum and tell her. The solicitors working for my parents are incompetent. It's a bloody disgrace to have to read about the pub malarkey in the morning papers when one is paying a bloody fortune to lawyers to keep one informed. At least now it's all over other plans can be made.

At home Ally cooked sirloin steaks with salad. The sight of her shifted my headache. She wasn't too good this morning [the wine] but picked up later.

News: Lord Drogheda has died. The Prince and Princess of Wales entertained President Sadat on board the Royal Yacht Britannia. The couple looked bronzed and radiant. It's refreshing to see them smiling from the pages of newspapers when the rest of the news is gloom and disorder. The YP and EP simply don't know how to style her despite my protestations. Today they were 'Prince Charles and the Princess of Wales', then 'Prince Charles and his wife'. In an article in the Sun ['Diana captures Egypt'] they were 'Prince Charles and Lady Diana', whilst the Daily Mirror said 'Princess Diana'. Oh dear.

-=-

Thursday August 13, 1981

 _. Pay day. Still no tax rebate. I expect a handsome windfall now that I'm a married man.

Home at 6 to find Ally draped, all in black, on the sofa looking sultry and mysterious. It was very obvious that she wanted to be wined and dined, and so we motored to the heart of the Bradford metropolis to the Pizza Margherita [opposite the Telegraph & Argus building]. We were the sole diners until Rachel Judson and Garry came in. It was refreshing to see them back together. When we saw her last it looked like curtains for this friendly, rounded Yorkshire chef. Dear Rachel was dressed like a dog's dinner. Our pizzas were only adequate, but we did manage to knock back a litre of red wine after which Ally's eyes went 'glassy'. 

On to the Bod. It was full of tarts. Felt bloated and ill-humoured. Ally, however, was playful and boisterous. The music was abysmal. These compilation records are ghastly. Why are they so popular?

Home and to bed at 10:30.

-=-