Monday December 7, 1981

 _.Something is wrong with Audrey. She wouldn't start this morning. Poor Ally had to abandon her and walk. I don't like her walking all the way to the AHA especially in winter. 

Nothing at the YP. Home at 6 for a mince concoction. Then a thrilling episode of Coronation Street, shortly celebrating it's 21st birthday. I brewed and bottled some ale. 

I phoned the Hollywood to speak to Dave G , but to my surprise Lily answered and for a while I was speechless. The funeral takes place tomorrow. Dave came on, sounding mournful, and said Lily will be joining us at Steak Kebabs on Saturday. Such a good idea. Dave has a loathing for ceremonial and will be happy when tomorrow is over.

Outside this evening in the frost to put a blanket under Audrey's bonnet.

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Sunday December 6, 1981

 _. 2nd Sunday in Advent

Woke up at 10 after a bad night. My nose running like the Nile. Could it be cat hairs from the Smiths?

After a large breakfast we headed out to Grassington and the Devonshire Arms where we sat supping ale. Charlotte, clutching a ginger wine, looked over at me and exclaimed that lager and lime is a 'female drink'. She studied me very searchingly as though my reaction was vital to her survey. She is a person who tends to pigeon-hole everyone and everything, and because of my pint I'm now in the same hole as Jeremy Thorpe, Larry Grayson and Sir Benjamin Britten.

We did the usual round of craft shops, but bought nothing. We made our way to Burley for 5 to let Charlotte inspect Frances. Baby was in front of the fire wrapped in white wool and pink ribbons, but unhappy and restless. Lynn says it's because of her teeth. Our stay was only brief and we left so that Graham and Charlotte can go on to Manchester [or was it Rochdale?] for a paella with other friends. They left at 6pm. We cannot decide whether they enjoy our company or not. They must do, or why would they bother coming?

Sat by the fire and wrote Christmas cards. Watched the Borgias. Before he left Graham commented that the series is very poor and that the Borgias were not quite as nasty or ruthless as they make out.

Bed after 11.

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Saturday December 5, 1981

 _.Feeling decidedly nasal. But not as nasal as Mr Smith. Graham suffers from chronic catarrh  and we could hear him in the bathroom discharging his fluid into the sink. We're sure they heard us giggling. The Smiths are an eccentric pair.

After a massive breakfast we all went, at about 11, to York in the Smith-mobile. York was busy, bustling and full of festive atmosphere, but biting cold. We bought glasses for John and Maria and a decanter for Susan and Pete. Lynn and Dave are difficult to buy for, and so were left until later. Brass handles for our chest too.

We found a packed little fish and chip restaurant, and Charlotte bought us cod and chips. She is a round little thing is Charlotte and looks very Margaret Rutherford-like in her long overcoat and felt hat. She is in fact my age. We managed to get away at about 4.

Back at Club Street we drained a large bottle of Liebfraumilch [from Graham] and listened to a talk on the Smiths recent holiday in Egypt. That is one country I want to see. You can forget the USA and the Seychelles. Just give me a camel and the Valley of the Kings.

Out at 9 to Pizzeria Mamma Mia on Manningham Lane. Ally and I had scampi in garlic and tomato sauce. She wasn't too keen. Graham, slightly pissed, refused to drink for the remainder of the evening. Charlotte of course is not drinking in pregnancy.

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Friday December 4, 1981

 _.Have a thick head and feel something coming on. I usually succumb to the cold in December. Sad reflections about poor Jim Glynn. He was permanently cold, no doubt because of his heart condition, always rubbing his hands together warming them, before the gas fire, even in summer, and even when the fire was not actually lit, and only a figment of his imagination.

Kathleen came back into the office after her lunch break with a bottle of whisky and we sat at our desks sipping Scotch from our pot mugs. Better than the office tea. The girls became giggly, red-faced and flushed. Pathetic really. I erected the sad little office Christmas tree, making the usual predictable jokes about balls, which gave a staggering Kathleen some belly laughs.

On at 5 to Rawdon and my dentist, but was out on the street within minutes. My teeth require no treatment, and he doesn't want to see me again until June 4.

Back to Ally. Graham and Charlotte Smith rolled in at 8. We dined. Afterwards the pregnant Charlotte sprawled in an arm chair, clutching a hot water bottle, and throwing in the occasional grunt. The baby, if a boy, is to be Hugo. Poor little sod. Graham did his 'dead man lying on the floor' routine. They took over our bedroom, which I resent, and we had bunk beds. Suddenly I feel old.

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Thursday December 3, 1981

 _.A warm day. Ally, feeling better, went off to the AHA. 

The YP was a bundle of fun. Sat with my coffee brooding over the nationals [papers]. The Michael English Succession Bill is really worrying me. The Bill is to be read on February 26.

Went into town at lunchtime but returned, battered, after half an hour in the seething hysterical crowd of Christmas shoppers. Where do all the old women come from at this time of the year? The newspapers says we are in a financial depression, but that news hasn't filtered through to the masses in Leeds. Sir Geoffrey Howe this afternoon presesnted a financial statement, a 'mini budget'. 

Home at 6. To Morrison's. We were home at 7:15 and had a call from Dave G. His father died at 2am today after suffering another heart attack last night. I was lost for words, but Dave seemed very composed. A relief manager has been installed at the Hollywood , as Lily lies bereft in her room. Dave says he is so proud of his grandad, mourning his only child, and yet battling on. It was obvious months ago that Jim Glynn's days were numbered, yet it's a great blow. He was 56. A warm hearted and humorous man. Poor Lily.

Billy phoned at 10:30 and insists we go stay at his flat on the night of Dec 12, and that Dave wants our visit to go ahead. The lads took Dave to the Robin Hood tonight.

-=-

Wednesday December 2, 1981

 _.Up at 6:30.

In my lunch break I made what is now a regular hike to the Central Library and took out Agatha Christie's autobiography for Ally. I phoned her at 12:45 and she phoned me at 4:30. 

Spoke to Papa [Mama was in the bath]. His eye is healing but after two weeks he's still taking the eye drops.

I am worried about the proposed Bill to alter the succession to the throne. Our monarchy is sacred. We are not like the bicycling, bourgeois European and Scandinavian royal families. To mess with the ancient order of things hits at the very stability of the institution, and will crumble away more of the mystique. Anyway, I cannot see Her Majesty giving her approval to such feminist meddling.

Home at 5:45. Steak and kidney cobblers! A Lancashire dish, I think. 

The Borgias on the telly. We are on episode 7 and they have only just got round to using poison.

-=-

Tuesday December 1, 1981

 _.Ally feels as though she's been run over by a steam roller, but feels better than yesterday. Up at 6:30 and we had boiled eggs in bed.

I phoned the AHA to report to Derek and was relieved to hear Gillian's voice. She's back at work with the all important filing cabinet keys.

A tortuous journey from Leeds this evening. Christmas shoppers. Found Ally knitting by a glowing TV set. Cousin Jackie phoned inviting us to visit her this evening. We decline. Ally in no fit state. We do promise to go soon. 

Watched 'Brideshead Revisited'. Bed before 10.

-=-

Monday November 30, 1981

 _.St Andrew's Day

Ally had a dreadful night and spent the day in bed. I phoned Mum, which I probably shouldn't have done, and they came at 6:30 driving Pete's car. Ally didn't want any fuss. I phoned the AHA to hear the panic, and Welsh panic at that, of Derek Jenkins. Gillian is also missing from the office and the filing cabinets are all locked, both girls having the keys, and subsequently he can do no work.

I have written to the Times about a remarkable piece of rubbish published in this morning's edition penned by the usually reliable Philip Howard. It's all because a pathetic and misguided MP is to bring a private member's bill this week in an attempt to make the first child, regardless of sex, heir to the throne, displacing male primogeniture, as in the case of boring Sweden. [Philip] Howard, in a lengthy Times article, says that if such a law had been applied to earlier scions of the House of Windsor that the late Princess Mary, the Princess Royal 'as eldest child of King GeorgeV' would have succeeded her father as Queen in 1936, and that Lord Harewood would now be our sovereign. It's all very amusing I'm sure but for the fact that Princess Mary was not King George V's eldest. She was born in April, 1897, and was the King Emperor's third sprog. Edward VIII, and George VI came before her.

-=-

Sunday November 29, 1981

 _. No sooner were we out of bed when a sharp knock at the door heralded the arrival of cousin Jackie and a bundle of apricot fur, supposedly pertaining to be a six week old Poodle pup. We had a few drinks, and I accidentally stood on the yelping fur ball several times, but life was not extinguished. Jackie was here to stay. We watched a vintage Margaret Rutherford film together with glasses of home-brewed sherry, and then Jackie, a district nurse, left at 4:30 to give an insulin injection to a diabetic gentleman. 

Ally and I continued drinking until evening. I taped some music from the radio. Ally compiled a Christmas card list, and we sat, long faced, through a hideous Royal Command Performance.

We have decided to throw a Sunday afternoon Xmas party on December 20. Phoned Mum, Lynn, Sue and Auntie Hilda.

The Borgias, on TV. Rabbit and Yorkshire pudding. Bed at 11.

-=-

Saturday November 28, 1981

 _. Slept until after 11. Then, in a flurry of activity, Ally took a bucket and went out to clean Audrey before setting to work on the windows. It was a cold day. I ventured outside to glue something onto the car that had fallen off during Audrey's lengthy stay at Jack Andrews garage. I almost had to glue back vital extremities which were frozen and close to falling off my person in the Arctic conditions. Watching Ally from the window I realised that all the other elderly residents of Club Street were doing the same. Funny how old ladies spend a lot of time peeping over their potted geraniums through lace curtains.

At 3 we headed into the metropolis to have a sudden, yet successful spend. Bought Sarah a demijohn for her two week wine. Bought Mum Nigel Dempster's 'Princess Margaret: a life Unfulfilled' [for her birthday]. Took a flower painting to be framed. It will cost £22. Bought Ally a diary. Yes, I am to have a rival in the literary field. I suppose it will be very interesting in years to come for us, and indeed you, dear reader, to look back and view two different accounts of our 'goings on'. I find keeping this journal very time consuming, and yet to call a halt and finish would be like severing a limb. It and I are now joined forever.

Home made pizza. 

Began a still life bowl of fruit and wine bottle on a yellow table. Happy with it. 

We watched 'What Ever Happened to Baby Jane' with Bette Davis and Joan Crawford. Ally, can you believe, had never seen this much viewed so-called spine chiller before. Bed after 1.

-=-

Friday November 27, 1981

 _.It is rumoured that the Princess of Wales is booked into the Lindo Wing at St Mary's Hospital, Paddington, in the second week in June, and under an assumed name. We are told that the Queen has canceled a state visit to Sweden in June because Queen Silvia is expecting a baby, but surely the cancelation is because of a birth closer to home?

YP dismal. 'Mrs Slocombe' is such a crashing snob. I blame the Toxteth riots on Mrs S's attitude to coloured types. Her bigoted ramblings grown worse with every passing day. I have noticed that those who propogate racial discrimination are generally uneducated, ignorant and very small minded.

Terry Fletcher, a YP reporter, followed Shirley Williams around Crosby for two days and says she cannot be matched for her incredible ability to talk to all people from all walks of life. She has, he says, an answer for everything and no journalist there could come any way near to breaking her. Mr Fletcher has returned to Leeds convinced that Mrs Williams will one day be prime minister. I'm not sure. Her appearance lets her down very badly. She is almost a female version of Michael Foot. Just imagine her at the Cenotaph in crumpled orange Crimplene and anorak, her fuzzy hair blowing. Besides, she's a Roman Catholic, and I think we have yet to have an RC PM.

Mushroom soup. Mince, sprouts, dumplings, &c. Mum phoned in a state of great excitement to say that Auntie Mabel has won a Christmas food hamper to the value of £97. I phoned auntie to offer congratulations. Characteristically she says she wept like a baby on receiving the news.

Somebody has offered Ally £240 for Audrey. My God? Thank goodness the weekend is here. We sat until 10 and then bed called.

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