Monday April 6, 1981

 _. Not much work was done today. Mum phoned me at about 11 to say Lynn was in hospital, but had no further details. She phoned again at 1 to say Lynn was in labour and that David was with her and added 'I don't know whether to laugh or cry'. She decided on the latter option and hung up on me such was the violence of her emotion. I phoned Ally, who was similarly on the verge of collapse with excitement. Jacq phoned, and I told her I'd speak to her tomorrow.

Back in Guiseley I bought bread and other vital provisions and was home at about 5:30. David had phoned at 5 saying Lynn would be labouring for another two hours or so, and we were settling down for a gripping and tortuous evening when he phoned again at 6:05pm. Lynn gave birth to a daughter at 5:40pm weighing 5lb 13oz and she is to be called Frances Anne Baker. Such a relief. Dad wept like a baby, and did so for the remainder of the evening. Ally appeared and she too burst into tears. The whisky bottle came out. Ally and I went to see Muriel and Jim to convey the news, and they kept us too long and made us drink sherry. Maureen Eccles, from next door, came in for a drink, just as David returned from Airedale Hospital. He puffed on a cigar looking very proud. We sat until after 12. Frances is a name we never expected. I had a great-aunt, Frances Wilson, born in August, 1874, who died in infancy. It's not a name I'd ever pick, but quite pretty and certainly sensible.

To bed, merry and late, full of joy.

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Sunday April 5, 1981

 _. Passion Sunday

My twenty sixth birthday. Up in the region of 10 and ate a fried breakfast with Mum, Dad and Ally. Ally gave me the Madness LP 'One Step Beyond' and a batch of ten cassettes upon which I can tape for the next 50 years, she says. All my birthday cards have an air of lunacy about them. Most of them would look acceptable to a three year-old. Lynn and Dave phoned with a singing telegram. Sue is knitting me a cardigan, but as yet it is unfinished.

Ally and I paid a flying visit to Club Street this afternoon and returned to Pine Tops dressed for dinner at 7. At 8 we joined Mum and Dad and Frank and Bessie at the Cow and Calf Hotel. Dinner felt quite a nervous affair. We seemed to be the only people dining. Frank took control of the proceedings and bossed us around, but we all took it in good heart. He chose the wine and treated the staff like servants. But that's just the way he is. Ate far too much. Home at 12. Ally drove home leading a convoy, with F & B following.

Mum and Dad had visited Lynn before coming to Ilkley. Mum's opinion was that Lynn is 'edgy' and on the verge of giving birth.

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Saturday April 4, 1981

 _. New Moon

Grand National Day. Ally put 25p each wayon the winning horse, and scooped over £3. My horse refused half way round the course. Mum's set off in the opposite direction. 

I spent most of the day up a ladder in the cold painting the windows.

Tonight Ally and I dined with Mum and Dad, and Ally stayed over in her suite. At midnight, in my bed, she handed me the first of my birthday presents, viz: [1] a new watch bracelet, [2] The Old Man of Lochnagar, by the Prince of Wales. My birthday card is a painting by Beryl Cook entitled 'My New Fur Coat'. We sat giggling. I do not feel twenty-six.

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Friday April 3, 1981

 _. To Burley-in-Wharfedale with Ally to see the expectant Lynn and Dave. Joined by Sue and Pete, and we all had fish and chips for supper. Lynn's baby is due tomorrow. She looked happy, which is the main thing. But a little nervous. Lynn gave me two chamber pots as a birthday present. She gave them today because she hopes to be indisposed on Sunday. Perhaps I 'll get a beautiful nephew or niece. What a gift that would be.

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Thursday April 2, 1981

 _. To Ally's from the YP. We had a gigantic lasagne. A quiet, domestic evening 'at home'. These are the sort of nights I take great pleasure in. Living it up in some crowded tavern no longer has the hold or grip on me that it once did. I do however love parties. They will be in my blood forever.

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Wednesday April 1, 1981

 _. Rain again. Fog is expected. I spoke to Ally on the blower at 7:30am. She thinks she may be catching a cold and feels groggy. The poor thing cannot open her hot water bottle. I must have screwed the lid on too tightly. I felt very bad about this. She told me of the pathetic meatless stew she'd cooked for herself last night. Poverty lives, even in these times, I'm sorry to say. We keep talking as though we'll be better off financially after June, but I am unconvinced. I will always be a pauper. The word 'pauper' is stamped in indelible ink across my chart, or whatever it is that St Peter uses to keep our records on file. Perhaps they've now got a celestial micro-chip and a heavenly computer.

Ronald Reagan is still sitting and cracking jokes, and I remain sceptical. We could have a President Bush by August. However, the Press says he's on his way to a full recovery.

The Prince of Wales's security has been increased at the start of his tour of New Zealand. He looks a little lost without Lady Diana. It seems cruel that they should be parted at this special times of their lives.

I went swimming with Sarah at 12. Did fourteen lengths. Nearly twice as many as last week. 

Home at 6. Papa was splashing cement on the back wall of the garage. Mum says she wants him to see a doctor about his blue leg, get a medical pension, and quit the police force!

Had a queer fish dinner, and took to water afterwards, my bath. Football on the TV. League Cup final.

Mum and Dad were very cheerful tonight. It's the police that spoils things. 

Bed at 12 to escape the Academy Awards from Hollywood.

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Tuesday March 31, 1981

 _. Ally got up in one of her ratty moods and was gone. She looked exhausted and edgy. She was a bit of a monster. I thought I was going to get not only head bitten off, but a large section of my torso.

President Reagan is reported to be sitting up, taking notice, cracking jokes, but I'm not all that convinced he hasn't been assassinated. Who is to say he won't suffer a relapse in eight weeks? Bullet holes at his time of life cannot be very helpful. 

A day of grind at the YP. I am increasingly coming to realise just how pointless it all is. Where can I go? What can I do? Surely there is more to life than cutting up newspapers?

Home at 6. Lamb for dinner. I mowed the lawns afterwards. Their first cut of the year. It might not be summer, but the cut grass made it smell like it. 

Papa has discovered a very large varicose vein in his leg. I put it down to too much cycling. I asked to view the invasive, blue monstrosity, but received no showing. 

I phoned Ally at 7:15. She's eaten watercress soup, and sounded much better. 

Retired to bed at 12:24am.

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Monday March 30, 1981

 _. President Reagan was shot and wounded in the chest this evening. The president's press aide, Brady, is reported by Reuters to be dead, and several secret servicemen seriously wounded. Reports say President Reagan was shot by a bullet just an inch from his heart. We heard of it at about 8:50pm during 'Panorama'.

Work was hideous. Phoned Ally several times. Phoned Lynn too and invited myself, and Ally, to Burley this evening.

Mum and Dad were in better mood this evening. Ally joined us for dinner. To Lynn and Dave's at 7, until 11:30. Lynn is fit and happy and waiting for the big day. David says baby will come on Thursday. He'll come when he's ready. Watched a Western and discussed the attempted assassination. Very shocking. Home at 11:30.

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Sunday March 29, 1981

 4th Sunday in Lent - Mothering Sunday

_.A day saying goodbye to endless relatives and friends. Both Frank and Bessie look so relaxed now the pressure is off. Sat watching 'Brief Encounter' with Frank, Bessie, Auntie Annie [Frank's sister], and her husband Uncle Bert, hideously paralysed with Parkinson's Disease.

We ate a good deal. We left at 4:30. At home Mum and Dad have had a fall out over his annual leave, casting a murky cloud into the atmosphere. Bed at 1am.

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Saturday March 28, 1981

 _. My Auntie Hilda is 45 today. Graham and Gill married at St Mary's church, Kings Worthy at 1pm. A gloriously warm day with blue skies. Gillian Margaret Jane looked almost Edwardian with her piled up hair, large hat, and parasol. Graham behaved very decently. He boomed his responses loud and clear. They were married by the Rev Canon Colin MacBeth, Canon of Winchester, in his 70s, and retired. Gill's father, the Rev Matthew Lynn, contributed. A day of fun and humour. Martin mislaid the rings this morning, but of course found them, and we had a stiff drink in the Cart and Horses before crossing the road to the church. Mrs Dixon, in blue with a feathery hat and pearls, had

experienced a dreadful morning with a house full. She seemed almost lost. More Dixons than Lynns attended. So many of them [Lynns] are in southern Ireland. Florence, Gill's mum, is very young looking. Andrew and I [ushers] traveled to the reception at the Westacre, with Midge and Eugene. Hilarious. Ally and I were on the table with Mr & Mrs Peter ['I touched no bollards'] Lynn. The next wedding will be ours!

Ally and I went to the Plough at 9:30 and afterwards went with 'Navy Dave' for a prawn curry in Winchester. Bed exhausted at 1:30.

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Friday March 27, 1981

 _. Fun and gin. Spent the day in Winchester, with Ally to the shops and then to the Plough , listening to the notorious Lynn brothers recount tales of last night, and their arrest. Trevor remains incarcerated, but Gill is thankfully kept in the dark about this.  Graham became horribly pissed on gin.

Tonight saw the arrival at Chillandham Cross of Bessie's sister, Joan with her little husband, Jim, and two daughters, Patricia [pregnant], and Margaret, accompanied by a policeman, a member of the Lancashire force. We took the cousins to the Southgate, and sat listening to tales of a constabulary nature. It's just as well we didn't let the constable meet the Lynn lads. We saw 'Navy Dave' and his little girlfriend. He had no idea we were engaged and appeared quite stunned. He does have a soft spot for Ally, you know.

We were back at Chillandham Cross for 12. The lanky constable carried off Margaret in his Triumph Spitfire, just to travel a few miles to the pub where Joan's family were staying, the Runnning Horse, in Alresford. They never arrived. Joan phoned Bessie in an agitated state. Frank, by now in bed, emerged with a raincoat over his candy striped pyjamas, and set out in search of the missing couple. Patricia's husband, Nigel, was out with a torch, searching the Hampshire hedgerows. Frank came back some time later. He'd found them parked up in a field, caught in grappling passion in the rocking Spitfire. The windows of Triumph Spitfires do not steam up, and so I think Frank saw more than perhaps he should. We howled with laughter.

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