Saturday February 26, 1983

 Up at 6:44, my usual hour during the week. We took breakfast clad only in our under garments and went off to get a bus to Skipton at 9-ish. We scurried around Skipton buying biege dungarees for Christopher and Cadbury's Creme Eggs and silly wrapping paper. Ally in her green boots wearing one of my shirts with the collar standing up. Delectable. At 11:30 we got on a coach containing seven old ladies, all in those horrible pale-blue raincoats. The driver went like a bat out of hell to Settle. We sat biting each others creme eggs. Messy. The seven old ladies climbed off at Gargrave. We met Mum and Dad at Settle at 12:15 and drove to Stainforth and sat in a pub until 3. Showed then Auntie Annie's letter leaving out the photo of Albert and Ruth which we are saving for a surprise. The pub landlady from South Yorkshire was broader than she was tall, drawing on a cigarette, and talking very loudly about Morecambe. Back at Waltergarth. The first day off my parents have had in weeks. Dad slumbered in the chair. Mum spoke about her aunt, Harriet Basham. We dined at 7 by candlelight and collapsed afterwards. The new cooker cost a few pounds short of £700. To bed at 12 after Terry Wogan, someone on TV that Dad actually likes.

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Friday February 25, 1983

 Fog today. Deep, deep fog. YP. Kathleen has told Austin-Clarke of my departure. Feel no terror but that might come with time. I have chosen a bad time to make myself redundant with 86m unemployed, but if I don't go now I never will. Phoned Mum and told her we will see her tomorrow. They were thinking about coming to see us but my request was accepted. They had Jim & Margaret last weekend and Jim did the plumbing. They gave them jugged hare for dinner.

Tonight we had chilli con carne and bean sprouts. Very hot. Ally dashed about packing for tomorrow. _____. A horrible American detective drama on TV. Tiresome. I looked at Pepys. It's annoying the way he bursts into French when writing anything remotely saucy. I kept nudging Ally for a translation. To bed after 10.

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Thursday February 24, 1983

Ruth & Albert (not the image mentioned)

 I was wallowing in the bath and Ally came bounding up the stairs with a letter from Auntie Annie Kirk containing a bundle of photographs from various Rhodes occasions spanning the decades. One of Uncle John's first wedding (to Betty) with poor Grandma Rhodes looking seriously ill. (It was the year she died, I think), and a splendid 1930s/40s portrait of Grandma and Granddad Rhodes, a tatty little sepia print, which I took to Betty at YP photo sales who made me a copy neg and a couple of prints for £4.50. I shall present one to Papa. Photos of Albert and Ruth are incredibly rare. I feel very pleased with myself for landing it. Auntie Annie says that when she is gone it would only have been thrown away.

Ally had a rewarding afternoon speaking to a Mr Tarbuck at Whitbreads and tonight we compiled a letter to the pleasant little man asking for an application form. Then, feeling particularly snoopy, we went on foot to the Traveller's Rest on Duckworth Lane (a Whitbread's training pub) where we sat watching the bar staff through great billowing coulds of smoke. We detest tobacco fumes, but that's a thing we'll have to learn to die with, I suppose. After two pints of Stella I felt and looked pissed. We have decided to go to Horton on Saturday by bus. I must ring Mama tomorrow. Fish and chips from over the road and then Sir Robin Day on the BBC. A.J.P. Taylor is a gas. Bed after 11.

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Wednesday February 23, 1983

 We received a letter from the nasty Mr Sutcliffe declining our offer of employment. It is his misfortune, not ours. Ally came home at lunchtime and found the letter on the door mat. She phoned me at the office and asked me not to be disappointed. She is a brick. She spent the afternoon ringing round other breweries. Tetley's, Whitbread, &c.

At home we tried not to be depressed. The crisis between Deirdre and Ken on Coronation Street has come to a head. Not a dry eye in the nation, I shouldn't wonder. Mike Baldwin was sent packing.

At 8 I phoned Stockport and spoke to Glynnie. We haven't seen him since October. I told him of our brewery aspirations and he was dumbfounded. We are going over on March 5.

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Tuesday February 22, 1983

 Busy Spring-like morn. Splashing in the bath I told Ally that we should go to Colne to pick the brains of her aged aunts for stories of her lineage. Auntie Annie must be a hive of information.

Anther breakfast waiting for the post, which didn't materialise before our departure.

Steve O'Connor's secretary dashed down the garden path and and posted his specification for our new roof. £850 for the lot and that's going cheap.

The bus was flooded with light and I scowled all the way to Leeds. YP its usual cheerful self. I was honoured to be received in audience by Mr W.J. Austin-Clarke this afternoon and he told me details of my severance payment. He was sat peeping over his desk like a garden gnome with tiny black eyes, like buttons. I would receive £4,782. No golden handshake by any means, but not to be sneezed at. It was the only time I have spoken to Mr A-C since my interview in 1973.

Ally made omelette and salad and we sat talking about redundancy and pubs. We are held in agonising suspense and everything is in the hands of Mr Sutcliffe at Viking Taverns.

News: Her Majesty is going to have to do something about the Press. The Sun newspaper has been prevented by the High Court from publishing something this morning - the so called confessions of a palace servant. Todays article was to be 'What Di said to me about her strapless dress'. _________.

Ally sat on the floor going through her old cheque books stubs settling our accounts and working out just what we don't have. She's seen a few nice things in 'Cheap 'n Cheerful' and wants to know how much we have in our large whisky bottle. On the last count in September we had £40.

An evening of tranquil repose. Married life is perfect. It could really catch on if only people tried it. Read Pepys and adjourned to bed.

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Monday February 21, 1983

 Washington's Birthday Observance

I object to see 'Washington's Birthday Observance' printed here on this page. There is no page headed 'Queen Victoria's Birthday Observance', and if you expect to see 'Horatio, Lord Nelson's Birthday Observance' then you can forget it. The publishers of WH Smith desk diaries sucking up to the Yanks.

Ally leapt into the bath and I lingered in bed. She was yelling abuse in the direction of the little _____ postman as he passed us by without depositing any mail in our box. We giggled, kissed goodbye and parted for 10 hours. Ugh.

At the YP Margo informed me that Carol is engaged to the President Carter look-alike ....

to be coninued.

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Sunday February 20, 1983

 1st Sunday in Lent

A day of industry. We got up reasonably early again. Ate great chunks of Ally's bread. I set about my brewing and filled twenty large bottles with ale, and then sat down to coffee and cake and we watched Peter Sellers and Irene Handl in 'Heavens Above'. Crufts afterwards. Welsh corgis leaping through hoops and picking up the correct handkerchief, &c. Football afterwards and I sat through that but took down from my bookcase the abridged Pepys and read 1660-1663 - very pleasurable. I have a great desire to obtain the Matthews/Latham diary in nine volumes at £12 each. One day, Michael. Ally has been cleaning and smells like a SRN (I blame the disinfectant). We had a Sunday feast. Yorkshire puddings, brisket, cauliflower cheese, parnsips, new potatoes (Egyptian) and carrots. A splendid repast.  

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