Sunday May 20, 1984

 4th Sunday after Easter

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Warm start, warm later, but rain. I enjoy Sundays, but got up feeling awful after last night. My throat like the bottom of a parrot's cage. I went down at let Ann in. She's 73 and still cleaning. Standing in the dark in my cool cellar did wonders for my headache. Poor Ally. She looks, and feels, like a dead fish. Breakfast on eggs and bacon. Samuel held a rusk and snacked on it. Despite her frail, wet fish-like condition Ally is jovial and beaming. It must be love.

Sunday lunchtime. Just Margaret and I. 'Big Mick's' friends and widow came in to play pool. The widow told me that she has to come out as usual or 'go mad' at home. The poor girl looked ghastly. The funeral is on Friday. I do hope she doesn't think I am going. Like the Queen I restrict my attendance at funerals to only close family members. Upstairs at 2:30. Saw crap on the TV. Look at the (Sunday) Telegraph. Sir John Betjeman, poet laureate, died yesterday aged 78. Was he having an affair with Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, Princess Margaret's lady-in-waiting? We shall see. I have never taken much of a shine to poetry. 'If I should die' by Rupert Brooke I find very touching, but Betjeman's stuff about railway stations leaves me cold. 'If I should die' is actually called 'The Soldier'. Sorry. Wrapped Ally's gifts and bathed Samuel. He shits everywhere most horribly. Ally and I both downstairs tonight. Lynn phoned to say happy birthday to Ally. She was in one of her odd, distant moods.

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Saturday May 19, 1984

A warm, gentle day. Ally and I took off to town with Samuel at 1pm. We didn't take the pram and I carried baby for two hours, by the end of which he was like a lead weight. To Laura Ashley where Ally bought a frock for £26 and a pair of shoes (£9.99). I went to Greenhead's and bought 'Adele & Co' by Dornford Yates and then to Thornton's for a box of chocolates. Very sensibly I have decided that clothes form the bulk of Ally's birthday presents. No jewels, furs or trinkets this year. Back at 5. Lasagne and orange juice. Ally worked tonight and was bubbling with fun. I sat drinking with Bernie. After (at 12) Ally and I drank £7.03 worth of booze (Malibu, shakers (?), port, &c. and went to romp upstairs until 3am. _______.

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Friday May 18, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

'Big Mick' the pot bellied darts player with Hells Angel tendencies went to bed last night and died. His wife regularly babysits for Maureen. The tap room was a sad place this afternoon and all the darts team appeared wearing black as a mark of respect. It must have been Big Mick's ticker. Marie Barnes and Mags called in. It was a joy to see them. We are going to the Linthorpe to see them in a few weeks. Jane and Margaret worked tonight. Edna, perched at the bar, has a face like a wet weekend. 

Daily Trivia: a son has been born to Lord and Lady Ralph Percy, a male heir for the dukedom of Northumberland. The eldest son (of the current duke) is unmarried and weird looking. Sadly, two dukedoms are on the cards to expire by about 1990. Portland and Newcastle. Such a pity. Perhaps Mrs T will end her days as Duchess of Grantham. She will soon have won four general elections on the trot. Not even Disraeli managed that. 

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Thursday May 17, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Bert.

Cold. The over enthusiastic woman from Kenmar (fruit machines) bustled in and talked none stop for half an hour about gas boilers. Yawn. Mum phoned with news of the Uncle Bert saga. They waited for him to arrive at Horton, but he didn't appear. Eventually they phoned Nottingham and he was there. It seems he came by train to Leeds, but was late, and so made his way to Guiseley and the Station Hotel where he phoned every Baker in the phone book, to speak to Lynn, without success. After an hour he hobbled back to Leeds and took the train back home to Nottingham. She says he was very angry and 'more or less put the phone down on me'. He spent £17 on rail fares. What a cock up. 

At 3:30 we went to Linfood Cash & Carry and spent £40 on gigantic jars of tartare sauce, &c. Bulk buying is fun. To Club Street for half an hour where we ate bars of chocolate and sipped lemonade. Samuel, sitting on my knee, smells like an old sheep. He had eaten braised lamb splodge for lunch. Such a cute boy he is. Back to the Moorhouse for 6:30. Dog tired. I could sleep for a week. One needs the stamina of an ox in this game.

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Wednesday May 16, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Overcast day. Phoned Susan. Mum is on her way to us, she says, with a surprise visitor they are collecting at the station. It's Uncle Bert. They arrived at 2:30 having agreed to collect Bert at Leeds Railway Station but as usual paths were crossed and Bert is still at large, wandering the streets on his artificial limb. We had a traditional Mandarine Napoleon. Dad bounced Samuel on his knee and flew him through the air like a bird. They went at 5 to find Bert and take him to Horton. Somehow I cannot see this visit having a satisfactory conclusion. 

Marita.

We dressed hurriedly, packed baby into the car and went to Horsforth and MM and Marita's for dinner. Immediately, Samuel decided he didn't like the plush refinements of 12, Rawdon Road, and began to bawl. He cried like he was in pain, and yelled through the stuffed peppers, watercress soup, turkey in brandy sauce and trifle. He had lucid intervals but hysterics for four hours. It was a pleasant night despite Samuel's Maria Callas impersonation. They are going to Yugoslavia again this summer. They regularly buy cut glass in Dubrovnik. We left at 12, or so.

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Tuesday May 15, 1984

 Full Moon

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Dr Hampson says he will not resign his seat but his PPS job has gone. The PM is reported to be livid that he kept his arrest secret for 10 days and she first heard of it when she opened her Sunday Telegraph at Chequers. Very lapse of the Home Office. 

Samuel giggles properly now. He has rushes of high wind too. We put the blame on his chicken dinner and chocolate pudding. His nappies look hideous these days. Really grown up, if you get my meaning.

The Moorhouse.

Cleaned the beer lines and brasses. The place looking like a new pin. LG came in. Affable and complementary he was too. He went to inspect the cellar and came back praising my cleanliness. He went off after 10 minutes, no probably half an hour, and is heading to Majorca next week, and so said goodbye until June. A very relaxed meeting. He left and then in walked David Tyne on a 'routine' visit. He bought Ally and I a drink and chatted for ten minutes. He asked if we have any regrets and of course we said 'no'. He thinks I've put on some weight. He isn't wrong. LG & Tyne caught us at an opportune moment. 

To Leeds with the pram at 3:30. A pleasant walk. Dead tonight. Jane looked bored stiff. A good manager would keep her working flat out, but instead I went upstairs and watched 'Dallas'.

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Monday May 14, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

A hot day. 

Bessie phoned to say that Andrew is agreeable about the 'godfather proposal' and Ally reassured her that the boy doesn't have a large solo performance at the christening. At 3:30 I went up Dewsbury Road for a breath of fresh air and afterwards we had bars of chocolate and cups of tea. Ally opened up at 5:30. Mum phoned to say they will call on us on Wednesday after visiting Susan and Lynn. Why? We are seeing them next Monday, and Leeds is a bit of a detour after visiting Guiseley.

Dr Hampson.

News: Earl Jermyn says, in the DT, that he will return to Ickworth Park in September from tax exile when he marries and chastises the PM for not scrapping capital transfer tax. Quite right. Mark Thatcher has brought Texan bombshell Karen Forston and her mother to Chequers no doubt to arrange wedding plans. St Margaret's Westminster in August, eh? Dr Keith Hampson, Tory MP for Leeds NW was arrested last week in a gay strip joint  in Soho after molesting a plain clothes copper. Hampson is Heseltine's PPS but wasn't carrying top secret documents at the time of his arrest. Twice married Dr Hampson says he was thoroughly pissed and depressed one night and that he staggered into this den of iniquity unaware of what was in store.Yet the proprietor of the gay establishment says Hampson is a regular client. I object to the police acting as agent provocateurs. Leave the poor little poof alone and let him get on with it. It's another promising career in ruins. Silly sod.

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