Saturday January 22, 1983

 Bright and sunny. We had breakfast at 10 and left Mum and Dad washing up whilst we took a bus to the interchange and had our photos taken in a rabbit hutch for our brewery application. 

At 12 we went with Mum and Dad in the Renault to Settle. Only an hours drive. We had a few drinks in a pub there and then went to Fred's (a dingy bar full of people straight out of the job centre). We drank and watched the 2:30 (race) from Kempton Park, and staggered out to look at the antique shops afterwards. Mum bought an old jug for 25p. She's like Christina Onassis at times. They took us on to Horton-in-Ribblesdale but it was growing dark. I was impressed by my first view of Waltergarth, and feel sure that they'll love the place. Horton is smaller than I expected and the bungalow nestles in a hollow close to the river. They are pleased as Punch with the place.

At 5:30 we went on to the posh Royal Hotel in Settle - mock Jacobean - for basket meals. The staff seem obsessed with us and every time we look up from our baskets we see them talking about us. Mum laughed and commented that alcoholics always suffer from paranoia. Dad and I had rabbit pie, Ally scampi, and Mum steak and kidney pie. Left at 8:30 all jolly and contented. Back for 9:30. Terry Wogan was interviewing the refreshing Cilla Black. Ally went up to bed, but in the middle of the night she leapt from bed and was violently sick in the bathroom. Poor darling. I suspect that the sinister bar staff at the Royal Hotel have slipped her something horrid.

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Friday January 21, 1983

 The morning cock did thrice make salutation to the morn. We crept around like venomous things to avoid arousing Mama and Papa from their slumbers. A letter (nay, application form) comes from Chef & Brewer (Webster's really) and we laugh at the great wad of questions. We are applying to manage a pub and not for the director generalship of the CIA. They want recent photographs of us.

YP was tolerable because I have a feeling I am not long for that place.

Mum and Dad went off to Lynn's. She's having new carpets fitted in the attic. It all sounds very affluent. David Baker is Guiseley's answer to King Louis XIV.

Ally and I had fish finger sandwiches and watched a programme on the BBC about the Castle of Mey. Who will get this pile after HM (the Queen Mother) passes into the bossom of the Lord? Perhaps one of Margaret's lot, or Princess Anne. Caithness is a suitably remote spot for Mark Phillips's incarceration. 

We contemplated going to bed but were distracted. The Shirley Conran novel has given Ally ideas I'm sure. 

Mum and Dad returned after 10. The Bakers carpets are oatmeal. 

We are told that we will have no water next week. We'll all look like urchins. And speaking of urchins Michael Fagan has been released from his asylum imprisonment after only six weeks. Our poor Sovereign Lady.

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Thursday January 20, 1983

 Mama and Papa are in residence at ours and prepared a meal for us whilst we were at our daily labours. So obsessed I am with Patrick Anderson's novel that coming home I missed my stop and got half way to Clayton. I am within seven pages of the end. Could it be curtains for President Charles Whitmore?

Ate pork. Not my favourite roast. Wallowed in the bath and missed some of Top of the Pops. They're all so young these days.

Ally is quite fantastic about Mum & Dad. She usually detests having her 'privacy invaded, but not a murmur of disapproval.

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Wednesday January 19, 1983

 Freezing, but sunny and crisp. We took cups of tea up to Mum and Dad, who have an appointment at the bank at 10:30. To the YP with my Patrick Anderson book. 

Geoff Hemingway gave me £4 for the Bruce Dundas tip. Home at 6 expecting fish fingers, but Mum and Dad say they're taking us to Pizzeria Mamma Mia for dinner - a wonderful surprise. Ally put on her little white and gold number and after a few pre-prandials we went off in the snow to Manningham Lane. We told them about writing to the breweries and they were favourable. Dad asked whether I'd have done anything different if I could wind back the clock ten years. I told him I wouldn't. 

The thought of teaching now makes me shudder, and the thought of general reporting has never been my scene even though I can spot a good news story at three hundred yards. 

Ally and I had seafood pizzas, and Mum and Dad had cannelloni and lasagne, and Papa took the bill. £18 for four with wine and a starter is excellent, I think. Back home in the nifty little Renault for post-prandial drinks of pernod and orange. Watched the beginning of a series about the Cleopatras. It's a bit like Coronation Street, or Crossroads, but with pyramids. Bed at 11:30. Mum and Dad much more jolly today. They had spent the day up at Ingleton and on to Horton and say that the hills look exquisite in snow. I wish them success and happiness.

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Tuesday January 18, 1983

 We got up and Ally, looking out, said it was snowing 'badly'. I sluggishly climbed out of bed and formed my own opinion. She was half right. Boiled eggs with Ally's home made bread is like something sent from the Gods. Her bread cannot be beaten. 

To the YP reading my American thriller. I'm obsessed with it. After going out at lunchtime to post letters to the breweries I returned to the office looking like a snowman and sat reading my novel behind the filing cabinets. It shrieks of Watergate, but is so good. Ally phoned whilst I was hiding behind the cabinets and Margo came to find me. At 4 Mum phoned to ask to come over and stay the night, but said they's have the bunks. This is stupid. Why should they have the bunks when Ally and I can fit in the bottom one quite easily? I wouldn't give up myh bed for anyone, but Mum and Dad are the exception. Ally, slightly panic stricken at the news, rushed home to vacuum everywhere. They arrived like lost souls at 7:30. We had a few drinks and Ally toddled off to bed at 11. Mum revealed why they have landed with us in Bradford at such short notice. ___________. I consoled her and told her that they could stay with us until they go up to Horton-in-Ribblesdale (Jan 31). Ally is an angel about it all and tries to make them feel wanted. ________.

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Monday January 17, 1983

 Strong wind. Took lashings of coffee (black), and ten seconds of 'breakfast TV' from the BBC which started today. Frank Bough at 6:30am is a ghastly thought, and so I'm sticking with the dear, old wireless. We do not have the time to watch TV at breakfast time. My God, don't we have enough of the box without getting it at dawn? 

Took a book with me on the bus. After nine years of looking out upon a grimy West Yorkshire I think I need a change. It's 'The President's Mistress' by Patrick Anderson. To and from Leeds I managed 80 pages, and seven chapters.

YP was hell. Ally phoned. We talked of sending for an application form for Viking Taverns at Hipperholme. Home at 6 and after a chicken salad I took to my typewriter and composed three letters to Timothy Taylor's, Websters and Viking Taverns. The dye is cast. It is exciting. OK, it will be hard and we'll be tied down but we'll be making money and working together. It will be a challenge.

Phoned John. I asked if he was coming over tonight. His reply was that he has no petrol in the car, and will come at the weekend because Janette will still be here. She wants a job, and I suggested that she might look in the YP or EP for vacancies. She is heading to the job centre tomorrow.

Ally baked bread and pottered in the kitchen whilst I watched an Al Pacino film about a bank robbery. I couldn't decide whether it was a comedy or not.

Now that I've written three silly letters I feel as though I have made some progress down the pathway to security and stability. Ally will hate leaving Ash Tree Cottage.

-=- 

Sunday January 16, 1983

2nd Sunday after Epiphany

A morning in bed. It's a rare thing these days. I cannot recall when I last climed out from 'neath the sheets after noon. Even on New Year's Day we were up reasonably. We eventually emerged and splashed in the bath and had breakfast, dressed scantily, to the sound of the washing machine going berserk. Had a Duran Duran session at full volume.

Got a bus to Guiseley and arrived at about 3. Blustery day to say the least. To Thorpefields and the Bakers. Sat nursing Katie who is like 'ET' and not at all attractive. Poor Frances, looking sturdy and very grown up, did a dive from the settee and cut her face. We all sat and watched. She seemed to be in the air in slow motion, and none of us could prevent the accident. Had a few beers and inspected Dave's double glazing. They have inherited the decor from the last occupiers. We watched Frances have her tea and then went to Sue & Pete's at 5:30. They'd just eaten. We told them about our census search. Christopher is in control.

Phoned John. He was playing squash with Chris but we went round all the same and passed him in the door. We sat with Janette for half an hour drinking coffee. _____________.

We left at 8:45. Home to chicken stew and Yorkshire puddings. Bed 11:30.

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Saturday January 15, 1983

 Our alarm let rip at 7 and we lay in the darkened bedroom wondering whether we might be raving mad. We had a hurried boiled egg and went out at 8:15 for the bus to Leeds. We got to the city reference library for 9:15 and immediately tackled the 1881 census. I looked at Pudsey and Ally concentrated on Bramley in an attempt to find the elusive John Rhodes. My great-great grandmother Mrs Betty Wilson was still alive aged 66 in 1881. She was living in Chapeltown, Pudsey, with three of her unmarried children, and a granddaughter, Harriet E. Robinson, aged 17. My great-grandfather John Wilson was a 28 year-old labourer, living in Rider's Row, Chapeltown, with his wife Rella, 25, and two children, William 5, and Harriet, 10 months. Where was Mary, born in 1878? She must have been staying elswehere on the night of April 8, 1881. I found a couple of Fawberts but no direct ancestors. On the Bramley register Ally found John Henry Rhodes, 14, son of Samuel Rhodes, 46, a farmer, of Atkinson's Buildings, Bramley, and Eliza Ann his wife, 41, born in Horsforth. Could John Henry be my great-grandfather? It's the middle name Henry that has thrown us off the scent. She came across numerous Appleyards, all well-to-do brothers of my great-great-grandmother Mary Ann Appleyard (Mrs Ross). We finished for about 1:30 and made our way to the pub next door, Stumps, which is run by the Hartleys who employed Ally three years ago at what was the Belfry. We had one drink. Hideous. We went to Austick's and to Greenhead's to look at the books. Bought a YP. Lady Galway's obit is in. Not that they'll pay me. Dear me, no. Bought a Minton Haddon Hall tea plate bringing our collection to six. Home for 3:30.

I trussed the chicken and prepared dinner whilst Ally giggled at an Alastair Sim film on the BBC. Later she fell asleep on a large cushion. Alastair Sim again in 'The Belles of St Trinians'. Very amsuing.

We ate at 6:30. Ally's nap had done her no good, and she was too tired to eat. Sat reading afterwards. The Duke of Windsor was, if Stephen Birmingham is to be believed, an absolute horror. Ally on with Shirley Conran's 'Lace'.

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Friday January 14, 1983

 New Moon

Everyone insists it is going to snow, but nothing happened. Mrs Slocombe came into the office looking like a trapper from the hills of north America. She was later sat sorting through a batch of photographs and asked: "Is George Bernard Shaw alive or dead?" I giggled nervously but was inwardly terrified. How can a 30 year-old woman with 12 years experience of working in a busy newspaper office not know that GBS died aged 90 in 1950?

Ally phoned and we talked of our future. We are definitely taking on a restaurant or pub one day. The drudgery of office life has hit me like a sledgehammer in recent months. Mum phoned. Sue and Pete have had their offer on a house on Fieldhead Rd accepted. Lynn went to Otley yesterday and she and Katie were photographed by Edward 'Ted' Winpenny. It seems that Katie was the first baby to have been born in Otley in 1983, and a local shop is presenting Lynn with a pram for achieving this amazing fete.

Lucia Viscountess Galway, of Serlby Hall, Bawtry, has died aged 92. She served as a Maid of Honour to Queen Alexandra from 1919 to 1922. I passed this amazing piece of information to Derek Foster on the YP newsdesk, and suppose that an obit will appear tomorrow.

Spoke to Michael Brown. He's thinking of spending a summer holiday in Ostend. Poor soul. We laughed at a picture on the cover of the Church of England Times of the Archbishop of Canterbury with the Russian Orthodox Archbishop of Kiev. We are told in the caption that the Russian is on the left and that Canterbury is on the right. Do the people who regularly take the C of E Times need to be told?

Sandwiches with Ally. The planned chicken hadn't defrosted, and Ally thinks it smells foisty. Surely, it's Friday? Sat with our books and no sound but the ticking of the clock and me making slurping noises with my whisky. Pub management? We are buying a pub now. Why not? 

Watched the nine o'clock news. The Prince and Princess of Wales, skiing in Austria, are being pestered to death by the British reporters, and the palace has asked for restraint. The princess is taking the intrusion very bady and is going around heavily camouflaged.

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Thursday January 13, 1983

 Up at 7. Trying to be helpful I fried three sausages which we bought on Saturday last. Ally came down and moaned about the burning fat and ghastly smell and as I poked at the sausages she related to me the tale of the Clerkenwell Sausage Poisoning epidemic of 1867. By the time they were laying brown and greasy upon our plates we had both lost our appetites. I just pushed mine around with a fork. 

Off to Leeds on my faithful No. 72 and sat near to some 12 year-old chaps smoking like chimneys. They were with a friend, aged about twelve and a half, who was furiously sucking on Polo mints because, he explained, they helped him take his mind off the cigs. What a sorry state of affairs. They are sniffing glue before they can walk these days. And what about the under 5 alcoholics?

At home we sat in the bath together and then went to bed _______________. At 8 we had lasagne preceded by pâté and toast. Frank phoned. I didn't recognise his voice. I'm a biff. He is coming up on business on Jan 28 and will take us back to Winchester that night.

We watched Top of the Pops, and went back to bed at about 10. I sat reading Stephen Birmingham's book about the Duchess of Windsor. The man says that Queen Mary's first language was German. This is not so. Queen Mary was born at Kensington Palace the daughter of an English princess and was as English as I am. Ally has started 'Lace' by Shirley Conran. Lights out before 11. 

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Wednesday January 12, 1983

 Up at 7. Sluggish. My face still aches. I had the distinct feeling yesterday as I lay in the dentist chair that his assistant was laughing behind my back. They found it amusing that all my teeth are filled, each and every one of them. Dad said last night that I really should have wonderful teeth because I've been a regular in the chair since the age of three. No son of mine will be allowed to set foot in a dental surgery until he is at least 36.

We had toast and left a note for Mum and Dad. We crept out at 8 to our daily toils. Went to Greenhead's at lunch to look at the books. I also paid £5.20 for the advert announcing Katie's arrival.

Mum and Dad signed for Waltergarth in Otley today. They could be homeless for three weeks yet. Sue and Pete have put there house up for sale and have made an offer for a semi on Fieldhead Road (£26,000).  It's close to Jim and Margaret's. We are, to be sure, a family on the move.

At home Ally has sandwiches ready. A book 'Wallis Warfield Windsor' by Stephen Birmingham has arrived from our book club. Ten years ago I was furiously pro-Windsor. It was my opinion that King Edward VIII had the right to make anyone he wished his wife and subsequently Queen of the United Kingdom. I now realise that Mrs Simpson would never have made the grade. However, I do question the right of the authorities to withhold the style and title of HRH from the Duchess and will always regard her treatment by the Royal Family as shabby and shameful. The old girl cannot have long to go.

Ally took to her bath after a marathon ironing session. She spoke to Bessie yesterday. Andrew came off his motorcycle and banged his head. A policeman brought the news to the door and gave her a nasty turn. He really should get rid of the bloody thing.

I am considering liquid refreshment. I deserve a good stiff one.

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