Midsummers Day. Underwater. Downpour.
Sat looking at our gas metre. I'm dumbfounded. Designed by the late Sir Basil Spence?
The infant prince was born on a day when no previous monarch entered the world. King Edward III departed from us on that day in 1377, and Richard II succeeded him. King William IV died on June 20, and Victoria was proclaimed Queen throughout the land on the following day.
Top of the Pops and bed.
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Little Catherine is three today. We sent a card. ________. Hungover. Ally on a day off because of a NHS dispute. I took a half day and went home to Baby. The gasman came and made our pretty garden look like Port Stanley. We now have a hideous white box resembling a flight recorder on the outside wall. Ghastly. The car is knackered and won't start because of the damp. To the Co-op and then to bed. The infant Prince George remains un-named.
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The family tree I created for the EP back in March to commemorate the visit to Leeds by TRH the P & P of Wales was published in all its glory in this evening's EP. Fame at long last.
Back at Wilsby I had a row with Paul's hideous little father, a Militant leftist. He began by asking me why I'd begun my published family with Henry VII at the top. I said it was as good a place to start as any. He let rip saying the royal family are parasites, and that the Queen is a 'rubber stamp'. Here we go. I did try to remain objective and attempted to walk away, but could not. He then introduced the Falklands into the argument, along with Ben Ford, the MP for Bradford North, and Wedgwood Benn's sanity, or lack of it. Eventually, with much spluttering he told me to 'piss off'. He couldn't have done better because this really played into my hands. Those in the lower intelligence bracket nearly always resort to abuse when all is lost. A grotty night.
Jill was fun and Tim remains crippled. Tony still clinging to his Liberal party. Mrs Edwards looked very reminiscent of a Coronation Street character, but twice as rough.
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Longest Day - New Moon
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Father's Day - 2nd Sunday after Trinity
Breakfasted with the Dixons of Chandler's Ford, and later of Coleford. The usual vast fried extravaganza. Then to the Fire Brigade pub for a few pints of Tetley's. We laughed at the plastic tulips and the framed photos of a factory burning down.
If the Dixon baby is a boy he may be Matthew. The 'Rev Lynn' is of course Matthew. On to Willy's Bar. A fat woman sat fanning herself with a makeshift fan made from a paper bag, whilst blowing her nose on a toilet roll. We found this amusing. Back to Club St for coffee and cake and they left at 3.
We went to Guiseley supposedly for a barbecue but found that the meal was now to be indoors so that Peter and John could watch a World Cup match on the TV. I was violent and shouted when they said the Stockport venture is now abandoned. Played with Frances. She's luscious. We had steak and salad. We offered up some fine Father's Day presents and drank some fine rum. Home at 8:30 hungover. Lawrence of Arabia was on the telly, but switched off. Too tired. Bed.
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Mum and Dad's 28th wedding anniversary. Drizzle. Worked 9-12. Indexing in the YP just like in the old days circa 1976/77. Sarah glum. I blame the weather.
Graham and Gill went off to Oldham. An old friend there is Martin Sutcliffe, whose grandfather is Lord Rhodes of Saddleworth, KG.
Ally was waiting at home reading a dreadful book by someone called Susan Howatch. We ate beefburgers and then went to Bingley and poked around the antique shops. Went into Prestos supermarket where we bumped into the world-famous northern newscaster Brian Baines who was looking at frozen peas. Odd.
An evening in front of the TV. Phoned Guiseley. Mum and Dad were at the Fox [and Hounds] with Sue, Pete, Jim and Margaret. Poor John was babysitting for Christopher. He says the baby is sitting there giving him funny looks. Gill and Graham came back at 11 fed and watered. All to bed.
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Ally phoned at 9 as soon as I arrived at the office to say that Gill phoned at 8 to say she and Graham will be with us in Bradford this evening to lodge in our spare room. They are going to a wedding in Oldham tomorrow.
Exhausted all day. Dead on my feet. Home to a similarly wilting Ally. A long night sitting, waiting for Graham and Gill. They arrived at 11:15 and we had fish and chips and tins of ale. A horrible, greasy repast. As soon as it was decently possible we took off to bed. Gill could not be talked out of the name Siobhan. It's too posh for me. Lady Scrymgeour is called Siobhan. Giggled in bed for no apparent reason.
Work tomorrow - aarrggh.
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Moorhouse Inn, Leeds Columbus Day, USA - Thanksgiving Day Canada Old Red Lion. A very silly day. I climbed out of bed very early leaving my...
