Moorhouse Inn
5th Sunday in Lent
Still groggy. Feel half dead. Watched Peter Sellers in a 'Pink Panther' film this afternoon. Ally made gammon at tea time. My wife resents me being ill and banged around a good deal. Mum instructed me to go to bed, but I managed to stay on my feet.
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Moorhouse Inn
I have a horrible, heavy cold. But work must go on. We were visited by John, Janette, Jill and Tim. A pity really because I was in no mood for such revelry. Baby talk basically. Jill says they might have a Jonathan. Janette said that a son might be Simon, at which John replied: "I'm having no Simon under my roof." They all hung around until 1am saying how tired and ill I looked. Ally kept dropping hints and yawning theatrically, but it didn't work.
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Moorhouse Inn
Princess Anne has been interviewed on Wogan's dreadful show and was apparently very good. She has had good media treatment recently. Mum didn't get out of bed to watch it, saying: "she (the princess) wouldn't get out of bed to see me." Ally looked in on the interview and her peals of laughter could be heard throughout the building. I must say I have always admired Mrs Mark Phillips. HM should have made her Princess Royal by now. I am a stickler for tradition.
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Moorhouse Inn
New Moon
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| Parkinson or Redgrave? |
The decorators conclude. Ally suspects that in the latter stages they tired somewhat and found the task a toil. The small, Scottish and bewigged decorator was dolloping varnish everywhere, but where it was actually needed. They left at 5. We finished at 2 and went to Club Street to paint the bedroom leaving Samuel with Grandpapa. We did half the room and returned home at 5. Maureen did the bar until 8. Poor Mum was in bed all day again. She has had nothing to eat since Saturday except for a small splodge of porridge. She wept tonight. The look of despair I shall never forget.
Archie is to be cremated at Cottingley on Monday at 1:30. I will probably go.
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Moorhouse Inn
Cold. Drizzle. The decorators work at a slug-like speed. The lounge is shut off and clouds of varnish fumes hang in the atmosphere, like the mushroom cloud over Nagasaki or Dresden.
One of those boring sieges is going on in London. It's a murderer holed up in a van in Berkeley Square. It must be a smelly, sweaty experience.
Mum is stuck in bed. Why Dad refuses to phone Armitage I do not know. She had a small bowl of porridge but nothing else. Sue, Pete and the boys came at 11:30. It's Peter's birthday. They came after visiting St James's Hospital - you know, Benjamin's heart. His quack is on holiday in Australia. The soddin' NHS. They left after half an hour and refused an invitation to stay to lunch.
The boys from the Station returned to do battle (pool). But we don't have our Archie. We won but lost on aggregate. I was too busy to socialise with Tim and Mary. So much ale spilled - the tap room floor was like the Empire Pool, Wembley.
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Moorhouse Inn
An early dray delivery. The decorating continues. They were varnishing the woodwork in the lounge and our lungs are heavy with fumes. Uncle Peter appeared in the tap room in oily overalls - from Spensalls - to see Mum, and he didn't cause a fuss when I clearly lied to him and said Mum was asleep. In truth she was sat up in bed but in no mood to see visitors. We stood at the bar talking about the Wilsons. He has a soft spot for John and speaks affectionately about him. __________. He is so very upset by Mum's illness, and his heart is always in the right place.
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Moorhouse Inn
The Moorhouse Inn is in mourning for poor Archibald Drummond Adams. It is unbelievable. He was 42. Madge was hopelessly weeping and by noon we had a full tap room - everyone drinking Archie's favourite Bacardi & coke, and slobbering together. _____. It is hard to imagine our tap room without Archie. He was a troublesome, loud, noisy little Scot, but he had a warm heart and an acid sense of humour which I found so refreshing. It will be a dull place without him. Jim Precious looked quite broken. Tonight they all came out of the woodwork to mourn.
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