Thursday February 21, 1980

_. Ally stayed over. At the office this morning I phoned her at the AHA. I said we should see each other tonight because the spitfire is going for it's MOT soon, and when it fails we shall be 'carless'. She agreed, and arrived at 7:30 looking deliciously huggable. Off to the Drop where we chatted like love-birds. Her eyes, like pots of cocoa, are her most impressive feature. Her hair resembles a combination of canary Ferrari yellow and a fresh haystack.

Back to Pine Tops after calling at the White Cross. Martyn and Chris R were there. As a final parting I swept the pub landlady over my shoulder and made a few laps of the bar.

Cousins: Gold medal

Sat up until 4am watching Robin Cousins win the only gold medal for Britain in the Winter Olympics. It's a bit hopeless isn't it, when the might of the British Empire places all it's hopes on the slender shoulders of an adolescent on ice? What became of the warrior spirit of our warlike Viking forebears? I do not believe the bunkum now being bandied about that Vikings never plundered, pillaged or raped, or wore those wonderful helmets with the horns attached. Yes folks, they are now saying that the 'norsemen' were sensitive and artistic, who wore lots of gold jewelry over taffeta gowns and read Bernard Levin, whilst rowing over to heathen Britain to convince us by gentle, intellectual persuasion that the Viking way was the happy way.

Anyway, I retired to bed with damp eyes following the unfurling of the Union Flag over Lake Placid and the emotive sight of little Robin Cousins sobbing in his mother's arms.

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Wednesday February 20, 1980

_. Phoned Lynn at work to check on tonight's arrangements for dinner at Lawn Road.

Returned from the YP and felt miserable watching my parents eat. Sat, starving watching the news on the telly. Nothing but the steel strike.

I have news. Judith Rushworth was married on Valentine's Day to Tim Brown, landlord of the Hare & Hounds. He's made a honest woman of her at last. Mind you, his previous wife only died in August, and so I suppose a decent lapse had to occur. Dad saw Mrs Rushworth who asked him to pass on the news to me.

Ally came here at 7:15 and we went off to Burley-in-Wharfedale calling in at an off-license for a bottle of sherry, for £1.70. Dinner was a delightful spaghetti concoction. Afterwards we sat around the fire. Home 11:30.

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Tuesday February 19, 1980

_. Shrove Tuesday

Andrew: Duke of York?

Prince Andrew is 20 today, and in a few days time they are shipping him out to the USA on naval duties. Most of our recent kings have been sailors, and surprisingly many second sons have become king. I wonder whether in time he will be Duke of York in the steps of his grandfather and then King?

I devoured the traditional fourteen pancakes for Shrove Tuesday. Poor Mama started mixing the batter at lunchtime. After tea Mum and Dad went out for a walk, supposedly to walk off the stodgy pancake day offerings. Odd. They never go walking, and to do so on a dismal, dark, February night is startling, to say the least.

I spent half an hour trying to get through to Ally on the phone. She was speaking to Bessie [her mother]. She was sweet. I rarely phone her at night. Usually I ring first thing in the morning or when she's at the AHA. It was at the forefront of my mind that she was speaking to Sailor Dave. Am I developing a jealous trait?

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Monday February 18, 1980

_. Ally remained here for the night after returning from Bramhope. It was much too late for her to return home [viz a viz the Yorkshire Ripper]. We sat on the drive, in the car ______________.

Seeing the boys last night was fun, but ooh the bitchiness of the conversation. It was like being backstage at the Miss World contest.

Morning: to work with Jim R. No Jennie because it's half term. Jim got on the subject of Kevin Keegan and how 'goody goody' the man is. I have deducted, from our frequent morning car runs, that Jim is drawn to people with, shall we say, an evil streak.  He so admires the disgraced President Nixon, and according to my chauffeur he was the most intelligent US president of all time. At the same time he is very scornful about Gerald Ford. How on earth can Nixon be the most intelligent president when he was almost impeached and in the end had to resign from office after the biggest scandal in US history?

At home this evening: nothing on the telly but the nauseating Winter Olympics from Lake Placid. I derived no pleasure from this and sat buried beneath Lady Donaldson's 'The Royal House of Windsor'.

Wedding fever is gripping the household. Twenty two weeks until Sue and Pete marry and they all talk of little else.

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Sunday February 17, 1980

_. Quinquagesima

Leapt from my bed at 11 in a state of turmoil. I felt as through my throat had been opened with a bread knife. At breakfast I was bombarded, attacked even, from all sides, on the subject of my mindless attitude regarding the 'racket' last night. Even Dad was annoyed. He usually sits munching on breakfast cereal, his mind on greater things, like the state of the nation, President Tito's leg, and the twenty third heart transplant carried out this week. He said that when he was lying up in his bed in the dark, he really thought that Dave and I had brought an Indian elephant into the house. 'Why Indian elephant?' I enquired: 'Are they more heavy footed than the African variety?' It didn't go down well. He snarled and growled, and said that he didn't like been woken up by a circus act in the dead of night. Poor Rowan, the setter. Now banned from Pine Tops.

In the midst of the barrage of abuse I received a phone call from Jacq requesting my presence at the Commercial where she is taking dear, dear Trixie. I walked down to Esholt in the Spring sunshine. Spent a couple of hours in the company of Jacq and her increasingly attractive mother. Paul wasn't anywhere to be seen and we did not discuss him. At 2 I walked back home, in shirt sleeves.

Squabbled with Dad about his brutal pruning of the climbing rose tree which, in happier times, surrounded my bedroom window.

Marlene and Frank arrived with Auntie Mabel and the children. We sat for a few hours pulling other relations to pieces.

Ally collected me at 7. We went to the Fox, where we bumped into Martyn and Peter Mather. We followed them to the Fox at Bramhope, a place I have never liked. Met Chris R, Tony B and Linda [of Brands Hatch fame], who is with a new boyfriend but is still the same hilarious girl.

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Saturday February 16, 1980

_. Saturday. Ally worked tonight at the Belfry.

Phoned Dave L. Out with Sue & Pete to the Fox & Hounds [Menston], and met Dave who has the Gordon Setter, Rowan, in the car. The dog is too friendly for words. To the White Cross, but Dave hates the place. He was happier when we bumped into Dave Popplewell, who came over to speak to him about mortgages. Dave is in a frenzy about house buying, and now that his parents have split he feels he should make a home of his own. At 11:30 we returned to Les Haute Pins and Dave came in for a drink, bringing the excited hound with him. We drank a couple of bottles of wine and Rowan ran freely around the house. At 2am Dave and the dog drove away down the lane in a stupor. I haven't seen him so pissed for years.

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Friday February 15, 1980

_. Bid my fond farewells to Ally. She disappeared in a cloud of blue exhaust fumes. We are meeting on Sunday.

Exhausted and enfeebled. I spent some time researching the family tree of the Queen Mother. I compiled her ancestry back to Joan of Scotland's marriage to Sir John Lyon in the fourteenth century. I also traced the descent of George VI from Robert II of Scots, which shows that George & his Queen were 17th cousins [but they are more closely related through the descent of Cecilia Countess of Strathmore from Henry VII].

Phoned Dave L tonight. We plan to go out tomorrow for a drink. He wanted to see 'The Life of Brian' but I talked him out of it.

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Thursday February 14, 1980

_. Valentine's Day

Left for the YP before the postman had been and so I didn't witness the arrival of the thousands of Valentine's day cards.

Delia phoned, and I was made to own up to sending her a card. She was chuffed to arseholes, if you pardon the expression. She could not recall when she last received such a tribute.

This evening I went by train to Bradford where I met Ally on the steam filled platform to the crescendo of violins. We were Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson in 'Brief Encounter'.

To Rue Club for dinner: something from the crockpot. At 9 we tore over to Les Haute Pins to join Mum, Dad, Hilda, Tony, Lynn, Dave, &c. It is rumoured that Tony has had a falling out with the Liberal party and that he won't be standing for the council again.

I have three Valentine messages. One posted in Leeds, obviously heavily disguised, is from Jacq, and two from Ally, just to deceive, one being home made.

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Wednesday February 13, 1980

_. Ally phoned me at the YP to see if I fancy spending the weekend of March 22-23 at a cottage in Grassington, and all for a mere £12. How can we possibly let it go by?

We were visited in the office by the Hon Chris Monckton.

Met Dad and Michael Sansom at 12:30 and we went to Len's Bar for beer and sandwiches. They had been to Wakefield on a course playing in a mock demonstration, leading to a riot at the police HQ. Prancing police horses, riot shields, police women hurtling imitation bricks and flour bags, &c. All quite ludicrous, but more fun than the lectures they have attended throughout the week. Mike talked of his time in Hong Kong, and it's delights. Did you know that the capital of Hong Kong is Aberdeen? Left them at 1:30 and went to buy a couple of Valentine's cards. One for dear Ally and one for Delia. I sat in Park Square cleverly disguising my handwriting.

Susan cut my hair tonight. Sat looking at Mum clutching her red, hideously swollen finger. Dad made useless suggestions as to how to deal with the painful protrusion. He appeared with a roll of tin foil and a plastic bag. Needless to say, Mama did not entertain him.

Tuesday February 12, 1980

_. To the office with Jim R. Dad joined us because he is attending a course in the metropolis. Jennie gave us a blast of Henry Purcell on her recorder. Playing an instrument in a cramped moving vehicle cannot be easy. Dad could not look at me and we struggled to stifle our giggles. Supposing Jim had braked suddenly?

Abdication? Never.

Following the recent announcement that a certain Dutch Queen is to throw in her crown a poll has been conducted here to test public opinion as to whether our own dear Queen should follow suit and throw in the towel in favour of the Prince of Wales. Of those asked nearly two thirds thought the Queen should 'retire' at the age of 60 [in seven years time]. Let me make it quite clear. The British monarchy is no 'bicycling monarchy' like those over in Holland and Belgium. No other monarch on earth goes through the ritual of a sacred coronation. This sets Britain apart. The Queen dedicated her life to her people and her country in the Coronation oath. She succeeded to the throne 28 years ago at a ridiculously early age, directly because of the abdication of her uncle, Edward VIII. The very word 'abdication' must surely be abhorrent to her. In the years to come, when she is old and fragile, she can hand some of her duties to the Prince of Wales. The British monarch is by tradition a mother or father figure. Her prestige and influence will grow with the passing years, as will her wisdom. For goodness sake let's not hear any more talk of abdication. Besides, how could the Prince of Wales be comfortably crowned in his mother's life time? How could he be proclaimed our 'undoubted King' when his mother is enjoying the rudest of health, astride her horse, at Balmoral?

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Monday February 11, 1980

_. Up at 7:30. Glynnie was making one hell of a racket and didn't seem to notice that Sue and I creep around and talked in hushed, monastic tones. We went to Leeds on the train and I said my goodbyes to Dave at 8:30. He toddled off carrying two of the less intelligent morning papers, and I headed to the office. Sarah has resumed normal relations now that I am restored to full health.

I am told that Malcolm Barker's secretary phoned me on Friday afternoon, and so I waited expectantly for a summons to the oval office, but no summons came. Has Geoff Hemingway been singing my praises?

Mother has a septic finger and looking pained. She is seeing a doctor tomorrow.

To bed after watching Barry Norman. Always a joy to behold.

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