Wednesday September 3, 1980

_. Hot day. Carol J says we are having an Indian Summer. Surely, we are still in the normal summer? Surely, an Indian summer implies a warm spell in late autumn? I wasn't raised on the Pears Encyclopaedia for nothing, you know.

Speaking of Carol [and who isn't these days?] I was amazed to see her on the omnibus this morning heading into work. Disappearing with a running cold as she did on Monday I had given up hope of seeing her until at least next week. The rush of elation which shook my bronzed frame as she emerged up the stairs to the top deck can only be compared to the emotions felt by Stanley on meeting Dr Livingstone.

Industrious day at the YP. I wrote to Ally, and spoke to her on the phone. Derek Jenkins says she should go have an allergy test because she's been sneezing throughout the day. The girl must be allergic to early Indian summers. The man at the Citroen garage insists she buys the turquoise Citroen Dyan. So, it's bye bye Spitty.

Home at 5:30 to pizza pie. The 'Get Michael Married' vendetta continues its disgraceful course. I fully expect Papa to start cultivating geraniums, because he knows how much I despise them. [I sneeze at the very sight of those furry, dust-clinging leaves]. He's having a key cut to lock me out of my bedroom, and is planning to hang a large portrait of Clive Jenkins [a revolting Welsh trade unionist] over the mantlepiece. It has pushed Ally in the opposite direction. She is frightened and upset that people expect us to marry. It's too convenient, thinks she. One thing's for sure, I won't ask Chippy to be my best man.

To bed at 11:50.

-=-

Tuesday September 2, 1980

_. YP: Carol stayed away with her heavy cold leaving only Kathleen and I. Busy all day.

Spitfire: end of an era

I conversed with Ally, only briefly, this afternoon. She is bored without Catherine Brook in the office. She's holidaying in Menorca. She has discovered the joys of P.G. Wodehouse, and cannot put him down. The Triumph Spitfire may be going on Wednesday. The end of an era, and all that.

Home at 6 to a salad before setting about the jungle at the rear of the house with the lawn mower.

In the news: Poland could be invaded by Russia any day now. Roddy Llewellyn is reported to be in Scotland visiting [Princess] Margaret at Colin Tennant's place. The pound is up against the dollar. Another heart transplant patient has bit the dust. The delegates at the TUC conference in Brighton demand a red revolution. Yootha Joyce, a dreadful peroxide blonde actress, has died from alcoholic poisoning. The Prince of Wales, we are told, spends £300 on his suits.

Tommy Cooper was on TV tonight. Saw Nureyev dancing 'Aureole' with the Royal Danish Ballet - impressive. Bed at 11:30. Felt like reading but didn't know what.

-=-

Monday September 1, 1980

_. Something of a rotten day, really. Carol staggered in to work showing all the signs of pneumonia, and sat around sneezing, wheezing and dribbling until lunchtime and then left leaving me on my own. Kathleen, of course, never works Mondays.

Saw in the the death notices of Saturday's Daily Telegraph that Naomi's Dad died on August 28. The Rev Benjamin Downing was something of a character. I remember seeing him buried in the foliage on Hawksworth Lane digging, on all fours, for dandelions for his pet rabbit's evening meal. Naomi was spotted only this weekend making merry in the White Cross.

Susan and Peter came to dinner this evening [roast pork]. She told me 'the lads' have missed me since I haven't been out with them since the wedding. They were all at the Square and Compass on Saturday. After dinner we watched 'Marathon Man' a 1976 Dustin Hoffman film in which Laurence Olivier plays a Nazi war criminal. Mum seethed over her knitting every time anybody said 'fuck'. I puzzle over why such adulation is sprayed over Sir Larry, a vastly over-rated and declining actor. His Hamlet may have been spot on, but that was 1947. Can he live off this forever?

Dad was called to an incident this afternoon where a man was burned to death whilst carrying out repairs on his car. Ugh.

To bed at 12.

-=-

Sunday August 31, 1980

_. 13th Sunday after Trinity

My grandmother, Ruth Ellen Upton would have been eighty today. She married Albert Rhodes in 1922, bore him seven living children, and died, exhausted, in June, 1959.

Said goodbye to Ally at 10:30 and returned home. Met David on the lane and he joined us for breakfast. Mum and Dad went off to a 60th birthday party at Uppermill, and I walked to Burley-in-W which took about an hour. Lynn gave me steak and chips, and afterwards I helped Dave lay a few paving stones, and then joined Lynn in a deckchair [not the same one]. Later they went on to Mr & Mrs Baker's residence at Pool, and dropped me at my deserted home.

Sat with a mug of soup watching TV. A play about Tutankhamun's curse, which was interesting. Didn't the Earl of Carnarvon's daughter, Lady Evelyn Beauchamp die very recently? Bed at 12:30. Mum and Dad came in at 1:30 and Tony woke me.

-=-

Saturday August 30, 1980

_. Breakfast with Mama and Papa and then I disappeared to Ally's, where I found her doing housework. Washing and cleaning like something possessed. That chap Grahame who wrote The Wind in the Willows would have found a suitable adjective to describe Ally's activities, but I fail to do. She asked me to join her, in this dubious spurt of energy, but I clung fiercely to the arms of my chair. After some slight persuasion she transformed from scullery wench to Italian countess, and we headed out in the dying Spitfire to the Bod.

We spent an hour at the Bod, shovelling coins, wildly, and with regularity, into the juke box.  Afterwards we visited the Citroen garage nearby and attempted to inspect a car. We left unsatisfied, after thumbing through 1968 editions of Leeds Topic. The garage proprietor simply vanished.

Back at Club St we found a bottle of David Greenwood's rhubarb wine. Ally concocted a spaghetti bolognese. I ventured into the garden and pulled weeds. Inside, Ally arranged a night out with Lynn and Dave.

Out at 8:30, drunk, and loudly conversing, and Lynn and Dave joined us in the Drop just as we were about to propose marriage in unison, but the words were put off until a later date. Lynn was rosy and well, but is sharp with me when my noisy banter embarrassed her. Bad of me, really. Drank until 11. Saw Walter, the greengrocer, with his mistress of long standing, or long laying. He informed Mrs Hanson, the landlady, that Lynn and I are children of the famous local police sleuth, Lawrence Rhodes. She was somewhat taken aback, and on composing herself reeled off the various incidents in her life where Papa had been a guiding light. Once, she told us through the bottom of a half pint glass, Dad had ejected her forcibly from a polling station after she had a disagreement with an election official.

Lynn and Dave went on to Burley-in-W and we went back to Bradford.

-=-

Friday August 29, 1980

_. Rain. Saw Christine B in town at 12. She was chatty and told me she'd seen Denise Akroyd in The Bank [pub] last night. I marched around Leeds chewing gum, avoiding the sandwich shops. I break out in a cold sweat at the thought of growing fat.

Viscount Linley has gone on holiday to the USA accompanied by a young lady by the name of Claudia Graham-Dixon.

Stayed home with Mum and Dad tonight. We howled with laughter at a Vincent Price 'horror film' 'The Oblong Box', truly pathetic. Laughing likes inmates of an asylum over our coffee and ginger biscuits.

Bed at 1am.

-=-

Thursday August 28, 1980

_. Sunny. A busy lunchtime buying goodies in town. I bought the 'Emotional Rescue' album at last, and the traditional rump steak, asparagus spears and extortionately priced tinned mushrooms. But who buys tinned mushrooms?

I also visited Jacq at Dacre, Son & Hartley with a copy of the Elvis Presley 3rd anniversary EP supplement. Some misguided wench in the office forgot to buy one on the anniversary of the singer's death 2 weeks ago. Jacq looked thin, slumped over her typewriter. Before I left though she did tell me how Trixie had been involved in the Alexandra Palace fire. I won't bother repeating it here.

The offending wallpaper. [We are sat on the loo]

To Ally's at 5. She had been battling with the wallpaper in the bathroom and was up to her knees in damp paper. Ate at 7 and then went to the Bod. We intended going to Oakwood Hall, but a phenomenal wave of common sense, the likes of which I have never seen or felt before, swept over us, and we returned to Club St at 11:30. Sampled homemade orange wine and listened to Mick Jagger, Grace Jones and Donna Summer. I do suppose that by boycotting Oakwood I saved some money.

My brother is throwing a 'cottage warming party' on September 27, for the cream of Lochans society. Mum is put off that outsiders will be attending, but will still make the journey.

To bed at about 1am.

-=-

Wednesday August 27, 1980

_. Heavy mist. Hot later. Three billion Britons are now officially unemployed, or is it two million, one thousand, two hundred and 80? Whatever, it's the worst unemployment figure since the Relief of Ladysmith. Can't say I'm moved to tears. What would St Francis of Assisi have had to say about the situation?

Industrious day at the YP. Spoke to Ally. She's been ripping off wallpaper in her bathroom, for some reason. I'm venturing to Rue Club tomorrow with gifts of pans and beads, rather like David Attenborough does when visiting remote South American tribes.

Delia phoned this morning to discuss a Lit. Lunch. She said Sarah had been dreading going on holiday and almost had to be carried onto the plane at Manchester. She does share my cruel sense of humour.

Getting off my bus at 6 I collided with Lynn. She had walked from Yorkshire Light Aircraft to Guiseley.

Jacq phoned enquiring about an Elvis [Presley] bites the dust EP supplement. I told her I'd find her a copy tomorrow.

Festered in front of the TV tonight. Devoured a hot beef curry and was incapacitated thereafter. Watched a programme about the dreadful Gracie Fields.

Earl Mountbatten died a year ago today. A new book claims that Lady M had an affair with Nehru. Pull the other one, Mr Hough. And I suppose the Queen Mother was having it off with Mr Bhutto.

-=-

Tuesday August 26, 1980

_. Got into the YP on time, for a change. I can never climb out of bed without being cajoled by Sue, so it's difficult now she is gone.

Sarah had a dreadful experience at the party in Cawood yesterday. The girls were set upon by a riotous, drunken mob, and they were deposited, fully clad, in the swimming pool at the orgy. Watches and clothes were ruined. She says she sobbed uncontrollably for hours. Carol J had been deposited in at the deep end, and she cannot swim. Sarah is badly bruised.

Phoned Ally, still celebrating the Bank Holiday. She says she may visit an elderly aunt in Colne. She seldom, if ever, visits Lancashire and her elderly aunts, and so I take this to signify a measure of protest.  I told her I'd be there on Thursday. She rang back at 10 to say the aunt visiting had never materialised and that instead she had stripped the wallpaper from the bathroom walls.

Saw Keith Michell play Henry VIII in part 5 of 'The Six Wives of Henry VIII', first shown in 1972, I think. To bed at 10:30 with a very mug of Ovaltine, like water.

-=-

Monday August 25, 1980

_. Bank Holiday in England, N. Ireland & Wales

Bank Holiday maybe, but I was in the office throughout. It was a hot day too, which is frustrating, but at least I get the extra cash. Just Sarah and I. She went off to a party at Cawood at 2 leaving me holding the fort until 4. Made good my escape on a rare omnibus.

Out with Ally at 7:30 to the Dog and Gun at Apperley Bridge, and then went to inspect the menu at the George and Dragon, but we decided it didn't come up to standard. Onward to Leeds and the delights of Jacomelli's on Boar Lane. Steak restaurant. We had rare rump steaks and chatted away happily ___________.

Tony and Hilda were with Mum and Dad and T pointed out several discrepancies on my family tree.

-=-

Sunday August 24, 1980

_. 12th Sunday after Trinity

Have a blocked head, sniffles, green dribbles. Warm enough to sprawl in a deckchair in the garden, and I did so clutching Joyce Grenfell's autobiography, a well-written tale. The book is on loan to Mum from Auntie Mabel. Joyce's husband, Reggie, is the brother of Lady Waldegrave and Lady Ballantrae [killed in a gale last March in Stranraer, when a tree fell on her], and Mrs Patrick Campbell-Preston, Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen Mother, and Joyce is a niece of Lady Astor [Nancy], the battling MP, who gave Churchill heartburn. No name dropping from Joyce in the book of course. I've worked it out for myself.

Ally came here in her break at 3:30 and stayed until 6. She says she really thinks she should not have bothered coming because I am 'snappy'. So snappy in fact that my deckchair almost caught fire. Fortunately she found it funny. I saw nothing funny. I'm always grumpy when unwell. I sat gasping like an asthmatic pug, drowning to the sound of Tony Blackburn  from the depths of my transistor radio.

Mum and Dad went to Giovanni's until 12:30 leaving me watching TV. Saw the end of the French saga about Molière. Bed late.

-=-