Thursday March 26, 1981

 _. Warm day. Went out minus jacket or pullover and basked in the sunshine. To Portswood [?], Southampton with Ally where she had a fitting for her hideous bridesmaid dress. It's so very 'girlie'. It's a case of 'Snow White' meets Shirley Temple's 'Heidi'.  Afterwards we joined Graham, Gill, Martin [the best man], and Neil for lunch at a pub in Chandler's Ford. The sun poured in through the windows giving a topaz glow to the beer splashing bountifully in our glasses.

Graham's stag party this evening. A multitude on a pub crawl in Winchester followed by something of an orgy at the Southgate Hotel. Graham's testicles were shaved bald by the naughty Lynn boys [Gill's brothers, Peter, Trevor and Michael]. Afterwards they practiced Kung Fu on several traffic bollards in the city centre and were arrested and carted off to the gaol on grounds of criminal damage. Trevor was incarcerated over night. One of the lads was found to be in possession of ________. Very foolish of him. Fortunately, this did not appear on the charge sheet along with the other misdemeanors. All this took place after the fun at the Southgate, where we drank vast quantities. From about 9pm Graham resembled the comedian Freddie Frinton's drunk act. I was missing Ally most dreadfully until the Scotch took hold in the Royal Oak, or wherever a dance band was playing. I think Neil and I waltzed. I was supposed to be looking after Andrew [17].

Frank collected Andrew and I at about 1am. He dropped me off at the vicarage at King's Worthy and then took Andrew home. The girls had been for a pizza and were very sober. Ally took me off in the car and we sat until about 3am in the Southgate car park. _________.

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Wednesday March 25, 1981

 _. Warmer. By evening it was positively Spring-like. Kathleen took the day off to gather herself for the busy two days without Sarah and I. 

Swam eight lengths of the International Pool at 1pm. 

At 5 Ally met me on Wellington Street in Audrey [Citroen] and we went down to Winchester minus Trevor Lynn [brother of the bride who was supposed to be coming with us], who flew from Newcastle instead, on an economy flight. We stopped off at Oxford for something to eat, but found nothing. This cast a shadow over the journey and for some miles afterwards we sat coldly in the car watching the countryside rocket by. Arrived at Martyr Worthy at 10:30.  Very busy here. Graham and Gill came in from the Plough spattered in blood following an accident in the bar. We guess a fight had taken place. Bessie looked pale and tired. In fact wedding fever is gripping the Itchen Valley.

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Tuesday March 24, 1981

 _. Wet at times but warmer. The temperature in Leeds hit 54 degrees. My alarm rang at 6:50 but I remained stubbornly beneath my duvet until 7:15. Bone idle today. 

The YP is dreadful with the chief back. One has to be forever looking for work, and after eight hours this becomes somewhat trying. Sarah has arranged a swimming party for tomorrow and I made no escape to avoid it. Sarah says swimming is good for the stomach muscles, and I am certainly in need of some treatment in that area. [Please do not assume that I am in any way on the large side. I am six feet tall, almost 26 years old, and still under 12 stones in weight. That's good, isn't it?]

Kathleen, looking at photos of Lady Diana, says she disapproves of the lightweight Christian name, and that the future Queen should fall back on her middle name when Queen, and be Queen Frances. How ludicrous. Diana is a fine name.

Phoned Ally several times and she came for tea at 6. I ate like a horse because I hadn't eaten all day, and to make matters worse Felicity McCormick had delayed my exit from the office until 5:20 because of the Hollis Affair. She wanted my imput because Sir Roger Hollis claimed descent from Tsar Peter the Great. Hollis's brother Christopher was a Tory MP who spoke in the House frequently on the dangers of Russia and it's increasing strangle-hold on Europe. I do not agree with character assassinations where the alleged criminal is long dead and gone. Hollis cannot defend his name. This Chapman Pincher is a rogue. He also claims that the homosexual Tom Driberg [later Lord Bradwell] was a KGB agent too. 

After tea we sat before a smouldering TV. Alan Ladd in a film from 1953. Ally knitting solidly for three hours again. She and Mum did a lot of giggling. Mum kissed me at bedtime. She seldom kisses. I won't be seeing her again until Sunday night. I have left a Mothering Sunday gift with Papa. To bed after 12.

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Monday March 23, 1981

 _. Got a thorough soaking in the heavy rain at lunchtime. It was Kathleen's first day back since Christmas. It can be described as the 'day of the long knives' because Carol has told Kathleen that Sarah's rule has been nothing short of disastrous. The ensuing exchanges lent the library a revolutionary or anarchistic air. Kathleen, to appease the mob, bought cream cakes for her staff at lunchtime, and I joked with Sarah about having 'funeral buns'. The custard slices and doughnuts are usually reserved for birthdays. 

Phoned Ally at 2 and again at 8. Wedding fever is gripping Chillandham Cross [Graham & Gill's wedding]. Bessie has been chained to a food mixer since last week. Ally was doing her washing tonight, and my heart went out to her as I pictured her over the sink scrubbing away at her smalls in the way her grandmother would have done in the early days of the century.

Dave G phoned just for a chat. The next Anglo-Stockport talks are scheduled to take place in the first weekend in May.

There's been another scandal involving a senior diplomat. Sir Roger Hollis, head of the MI5, 1956-65, is now said by Chapman Pincher to have been a spy for Russia for over 30 years. Dad says that the only thing worse than this would be the revelation that the Duke of Edinburgh has been working for the KGB since the 1940s and that he only married the Queen to get his hands on the contents of her red boxes. I go further in this daftness and suggest that the Queen is really a Russian agent, a doppelgänger, planted in the palace in the 1940s, swapped for the real Elizabeth who is now wearing an iron mask in a Kremlin cellar. Her Majesty is the fourth man in the Burgess, Maclean and Philby affair.

Bed 12:16am.

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Sunday March 22, 1981

 _. British Summer Times Begins - 3rd Sunday in Lent

We climbed out of our burrow at about 10:30 and spent the day in the sitting room. Despite the arrival of "summer time" we'd been subject to an attack of snow in the night, however throughout the day the sun shone splendidly, not so splendidly to tempt Ally away from her knitting and into the car. In the past few weeks she's gone almost insame knitting baby garments, like a wartime effort. A look of pure serenity passes over her face as she clicks away.

Watched Bernard Miles in an old wartime film, from 1944, full of propaganda. I was settled for the afternoon, but then Mummy phoned suggesting we accompany them to the Stonehouse Inn, for our first inspection of the pub. We were off like a shot. Sue and Pete were included in the invitation, but Lynn and Dave were visiting Chris and Julie in Easingwold. So, at 7pm we drove the 14 miles to Blubberhouses and spent a couple of hours in the tatty, endearing pub, which is typical Yorkshire without fancy decoration or comfort. We found it palatial after previous descriptions. George, the owner, was upstairs in his room, and we could hear him wheezing and coughing, poor man. His miserable daughter was loading his cup of cocoa with sleeping pills. George's son-in-law, fat and red faced, with twinkly eyes, sat by a blazing fire, and resembled old Jolyon in 'The Forsyte Saga', or at least the actor who played him on the telly in 1967. He gave us a tour of the ground floor rooms, one not opened since 1958. Mum and Dad were so impressed. I can just imagine them there, discussing sheep with the locals from Pateley Bridge, or wherever. 

Home and to bed by 12.

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Saturday March 21, 1981

 _. Supposedly Spring. Up at 6:45am. Ally is feeling a little better. Life without Dixie would be like plants without flowers.

Shazzo was in the office this morning but, after doing absolutely nothing, left at 12, leaving me indexing a dismal YP. 

Ally collected me at 1:45. Pouring rain. Neither of us were in excellent humour. Ally wanted to go shopping for shoes, and wedding shoes at that, in monsoon rain and overcrowded streets. Whilst in Stylo, looking for cousin Jill, she spotted a pair of pretty white shoes, and without further ado purchased them. We bought a plant in Leeds Market before heading on, quite bedraggled, to Menston, where I collected a morning suit from 'Charles' the tailor. It's an excellent gentleman's outfitters. 

Home to Pine Tops for dinner. Rabbit pie. Afterwards I fell asleep to the sound of clicking knitting needles, and Lana Turner on the telly. I was told afterwards that my snoring ruined the Hollywood epic.

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Friday March 20, 1981

 _. Full Moon

Peter is 23 today.I bought him a ridiculous miniature dart-board from a toy shop and a small bottle of Cointreau.

Ally came at 6. Sue and Pete had taken the day off and were just leaving Pine Tops with Lynn and Dave. Ally just missed seeing them by a few minutes. She'd been to Town Gate to look at a house called Phoenix Cottage, up for sale at £25,000. I spotted it a few days ago, and because I mentioned it she assumed I wanted to buy it. This has made her think that I am dissatisfied with Sprog Cottage at Lidget Green, which of course I am not. I look forward to living in Bradford, especially now that the MP Edward Lyons, QC, MP, has joined the Social Democrats. Surely, anything is better than Labour? 

Ally and I went to Sue and Pete's with birthday presents. Pete is more like Basil Fawlty than John Cleese is these days. To the White Cross. Ally felt unwell. Went to Club Street and watched TV in bed. I watched as she snored.

Mum and Dad went to the Stonehouse Inn tonight. Old George is in bed with bronchial pneumonia, and probably won't get out of it alive. His daughters are just waiting for him to go so that they can return to the civilisation of Oxfordshire. They cannot understand why Mum and Dad want to live in such a remote backwater.

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Thursday March 19, 1981

 _. Audrey the car is still at the sick car hospital in Lidget Green, but we hope she'll be well by tomorrow.

I did some shopping at lunchtime and bought a packet of fish in shrimp sauce. This was silly because for the same price [£1.06] I could have bought a nice piece of meat. 

To Club Street at 6. Spent a pleasant evening. Ally in a daft mood. We gooned around fabulously. She has received a card from Graham and Charlotte confirming their visit. I concocted a wild reply mentioning Ally's latest craze, sheep impressions, telling them that at that very moment she was impersonating a Shropshire ewe giving birth. I adore mad letters, but rarely receive them. If only I could write to myself? [I suppose that keeping a journal is writing to ones self]. 

Watched Orwell's 'Brave New World', the second and final part. Endured Robin Day, and went to bed at 12.

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Wednesday March 18, 1981

 _. Rain, bloody wind. Phoned Susie at 11:30 for ideas for Peter's birthday present. She suggests a dart board. Is he perhaps going soft in the head?

Sarah phoned Kathleen today and was stunned to hear from our beloved, absent ayatollah that she intends to return to rule over us once more from Monday. She wasn't going to inform us of her return, and must have planned to appear back in the office disguised as batch of last Tuesday's Whitby Gazette. We conspired not to tell Carol J of Kathleen's return. Our spiteful deed of the day.

The naughty child-molesting diplomat has been named in the Commons as Sir Peter Telford Hayman, KCMG, CVO, MBE, High Commissioner to Canada 1970-74, educated at Oxford, and if not actually living in Surrey I am sure he must be close by. The poor Queen must shudder with horror at the characters paraded before her at numerous Buckingham Palace investitures. If she isn't already wearing rubber gloves I strongly advise Her Majesty to start doing so.

Spoke to Ally three times. Received a confirmation of our holiday booking from Denise. Ally says Bessie is working herself into a frenzy about Graham's wedding on March 28. 'Where will Uncle Alan sleep?' 'Will Frank and Barbara be comfortable in a caravan?'

Jacq phoned and invited us to a party at Rodley on April 11 - Paul's birthday. I didn't mention our wedding. I couldn't think of what to say. Ally didn't like this when I told her of the conversation. It's as if I am ashamed of our wedding plans. Obviously, this is not how I feel.

Home at 6. Had kidneys and rice. Watched 'Lloyd George' part 3. 

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Tuesday March 17, 1981

 _. St Patrick's Day ~ Bank Holiday in N. Ireland & Republic of Ireland

After five years in the tiny bedroom at the front of the house I have returned to the back bedroom, which I occupied in the distant days of my early youth ~ those halycon days.

A most unsatisfactory day. I felt particularly violent this afternoon and could have throttled Carol J. 

Spoke to Ally several times. She's reading 'The Murder of Roger Ackroyd'. Home at 6 to find my bed in transit, and after dinner of dead sheep, I spent the evening midst the memorabilia and dust, but didn't discard anything. Mummy infuriates me at times like this. She was positively vitriolic.

Lynn and Dave made a surprise visit at 8 and stayed a couple of hours. Mum says Lynn has lost weight following her latest check up, peculiar for someone so close to confinement. They were both quiet. In fact Dave is positively mute these days.

Phoned Ally at 8. An endearing exchange. 

The Prince of Wales has succumbed to yet another fall. This horse will have to go. On the news tonight we saw the Prince and Lady Diana at a state banquet at Buckingham Palace for the President of Nigeria. Filing in to dinner ~ Princess Margaret linking arms with Lord Hailsham, and the Queen Mother cuddling the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Watched a documentary on Ernest Bevin, who was born 100 years ago this month. It's interesting watching old news reels to see how everybody in the 1930s, 40s and 50s appear to have been chain smokers. At the line-up of Attlee's Cabinet in 1945 it's hard to identify any of the ministers for the thick cloud of smog.

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Monday March 16, 1981

 _. Sunny start, but a slight fall of snow afterwards. A day closeted at the YP.

Up at 7. Ally drove off to a garage in Shipley where Audrey is to receive several days of treatment. She spent the evening cleaning her carpets, bottling ale, and of course knitting. We didn't see each other, but I phoned at 8pm.

Peter Patel, a grocer of Pakistani origin, and a good friend of Hilda and Tony's via the Liberal party network, was killed in a motor accident last week. Hilda and Tony attended the funeral on Friday, the only 'whites' amongst the 400-plus mourners. Hilda, it is reported, was ushered up to the open coffin to the sight of the unfortunate Mr Patel reclining with two coconuts, supposedly placed there as a sign of wealth. The poor man was only 39. 

The Conservative MP for Kings Lynn has fallen out with Mrs Thatcher over the recent budget and has crossed the floor of the House of Commons to join the Social Democrats. A little man, writing in a letter to the Times, suggests that Mrs T might not even be PM at the next budget. Poppycock. Who does he think might be at the helm if such a coup d'etat takes place? I see nobody of stature, other than Giles Shaw, the MP for Pudsey. Ha ha ha.  Another MP, Geoffrey Dickens, is to name a top ranking diplomat in the Commons tomorrow afternoon for an alleged cover-up with a paedophile organisation. One thing's for sure. He'll be a KCMG; he'll be Oxbridge; he'll live in Surrey; his wife will be clad in a twin set and pearls; he'll wear a fur hat, stink of cologne, and talk with a lisp.

The Prince of Wales was thrown from his new horse in a race on Friday as Lady Diana, the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret looked on. He really should abandon racing until his princess has sons.

They are sending the Queen Mother to Canada in July to calm the situation there. Things look sticky on the subject of the North America Act 1867. Some Canadians may want independence now but come July they'll be hurling themselves at the Queen Mother like Jeremy Thorpe at the Vienna Boys Choir. Crude, but true. 

Dined with Mum and Dad. Bed 11:30.

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