Monday February 14, 1983

 Valentine's Day

(Sickly Valentine slushy stuff)

We arrived home from our daily labours to discover a calamity. Ally had left a pack of lamb's liver on her desk at Chestnut House and subsequently our evening fayre was severely compromised. Fish and chips from over the road proved conciliatory. Ally knows that with fish and chips I am easily appeased. No need to go to ACAS. We watched the news and Peter O'Toole in something called 'Masada'. A good old Roman epic. Ally disappeared to bed at 9:20 and I went up to join her after a few more crucifixions.

Her Majesty has gone off to Jamaica, the Cayman Islands, USA, &c. Some of our Caribbean friends, it seems, would like independence from the Crown, but the sight of the flag waving natives doesn't seem to verify this.

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Sunday February 13, 1983

 Quinquagesima.  New Moon.

We woke up at 8:30 to the sound of a full blooded party going on. Lynn and Dave went off home. The queue for bacon sandwiches looked like something from the Warsaw Ghetto. All the overnight guests seemed to leave in a hurry. Poor Auntie Mabel had slept in an armchair and Mum had shared a bed with the pregnant Karen. Mum and Dad looked after the babies and we head to the Crown for lunch with Jim and Margaret. John and Janette followed but sat in the other bar. The chicken was greasy and cold. We signed Mum's visitors book at 3 and departed for Bradford - all listless and sombre. We left Mum and Dad by a roaring fire. As soon as we were in it was straight to bed.

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Saturday February 12, 1983

 Up with the larks and inspect the snow-capped Pen-y-ghent from the kitchen window. Bacon and eggs in the kitchen full of overall clad workmen and tottering babies. Christopher and Frances look so like twins. 'Where are the stairs?' asked Franny. 

Afterwards Ally, Lynn, Frances, Sue, Pete, Christopher and I went for a walk into the village. We peered over the bridge and debated whether we were looking down at the River Ribble. Dad told me it was the Cam. One I've never heard of. We bought jelly babies (male ones, because you get more) and a couple of bottles of lemonade from the village store and walked back to Waltergarth. I am so happy that Mum and Dad have found the right place.

John and Janette climbed out of bed at 12 and we walked down to the Crown for drinkies. Ally told them of our forthcoming interview next Wednesday. Lynn and Dave didn't join us. He was sorting out the chimney so that we can have a fire in the grate tonight. We sat by the fire, in Wellington boots, and the usual raucous banter ensued in the way it always does when Susie is present. Back to the house at 3.

Mabel, Marlene, Frank [bearded], Mark and Debbie arrived. Auntie took me on one side and asked who the mysterious young lady is. I told her she's John's girlfriend. I just got a look. Jim, Margaret, Hilda, Tony, Karen, Steve, Tim, Jill, Diane, and Paul arrived. Waltergarth is the ideal sort of house for a party. The sort of place Ayckbourn could stage one of his farces in. We drifted around the rooms in varying degrees of intoxication and some bright spark suggested going off to the pub - the Crown - and so we all went down the village on shifts, because of the numerous babies. Ally did something odd with her neck during the siege of the bridge as we ran to the pub, and she stood by the fire with a crème de menthe looking pained. It's hard to write an account of an event when one has blurred recollections of the events which took place. I remember talking to Marlene. The rest is a blur. I accidentally bit Ally's finger whilst nibbling her sandwich, and evicted the snoozing Janette from a bed to put Ally therein.

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Friday February 11, 1983

 The ususal sort of day one would expect to have at the YP. Kathleen didn't mention my proposed redundancy but I take that to mean she doesn't want to throw Sarah into a trauma.

Phoned Ally. We are excited about the Horton weekend. Home, in daylight, at 5. We had a baked potato. I burned my mouth. Saw Pavarotti on 'Nationwide'.

John and Miss Drysdale came at 8 and we drove to Horton-in-Ribblesdale. Janette doesn't feel well and blames the damp flat. They wake up dripping wet in the mornings. We're at Waltergarth for 9 and have a guided tour. The place isn't as dilapidated as I was expecting. Mum and Dad are thrilled and beaming about everything. The others are assembled. Lynn has a haircut like Ally's. Baby Katie bigger. Sue thriving and on good form. We had bowls of stew and light refreshment and pile in the sitting room (formerly a bedroom) with a 30s tiled fireplace. We were all tired and far from the riotous crowd of yesteryear. Janette looked far from well. We talked with Mum, Dad and John about double glazing the whole house. Everest want £10,000. A disgrace.

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Thursday February 10, 1983

 Phoned John. He says he will collect us at 7:30-ish tomorrow. He hasn't been in a pub for a week and a half. Janette was bright and cheerful. I hope they are happy.

I have a headache - a rare thing for me. Crumpets and lashings of tea. Ally is going to 'The Fiddler's' at lunchtime because Shirley is off to Ottawa to be a nanny.

A momentous day at the YP. I is rumoured that 18 journalists from across the YP and EP are to be given the chop. We are all summoned to a meeting next Tuesday to discuss the company affairs. Probably 10 per cent redundancies from across the board. I said gleefully that I would willingly go for redundancy. My colleagues were appalled by my flippancy, but of course they have no idea of my plans. Sarah went to pieces and left at 4 looking drawn and tense. Kathleen says she doesn't want me to leave, but knows Ally and I want to work together saying "why don't you get your names down on the waiting list with breweries?" I nearly dissolved. I suppose I should have said.

I am going to keep a list of things that our own 'Mrs Slocombe' is ignorant of. Two weeks ago it was badgers, and today it was Peter Tatchell, the _____ Militant Tendency Labour candidate for Bermondsey. How can someone who regularly indexes the YP not know Peter Tatchell? It terrifies me.

Home with a throbbing head. Ally on the settee with a white face and eyes like saucers. Not feeling too bright. We grovelled on the rug and contemplated food. Is it eggs again or sausages and beans? It's the latter. Ally, though tired, couldn't resist setting about ironing with her usual gusto. This week she must have ironed everything in the house. Afterwards we watched A.J. Cronin's 'The Citadel'.

We have forgotten most birthdays this year. Tomorrow (Uncle) John celebrates in Lanzarote. I do wish we could have remembered that one.

See on the news that a mass murderer in Muswell Hill has shoved sixteen bodies into a sewer outside his home. A proper good old fashioned murder for a change.

Should I be showing some concern for Prince Andrew's leaning towards the affections of buxom tarts? I do hope that the young chap is having a good time and doesn't intend making one the next Duchess of York. Koo Stark isn't bad.

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Wednesday February 9, 1983

 A letter arrived from Viking Taverns asking us to attend an interview at Hipperholme next Wednesday. My knees rattled together as I went off to my daily labours feeling much excitement. Poor Ally doesn't have any days owing and will have to approach the nauseating Derek. I sat smugly at the YP. I am going whether I get the Viking job or not. I have always vowed to be gone from the YP before my tenth anniversary, and that auspicious event occurs in October. Ally phoned this morning and spent ten minutes trying to persuade the switchboard to put her through. It's now policy to put no calls through to the library before 2pm - except for branch office calls. Such a bore.

To Greenhead's book shop. I'm obsessed with diaries: Leo Amery, Beatrice Webb, Noel Coward, Joseph Goebbels - I want them all. 

Today is National 'No Smoking' Day and to mark the occasion Mrs Slocombe sat blowing out smoke like the Vatican chimney on election night. Sarah's (illegible) is becoming too tiresome.

Tonight we ate baked potatoes with cheese and shrimps and yes, salad again. Goose pimples thinking about our interview. She hasn't told Derek yet.

Old Dame Eva Turner was the subject of 'This Is Your Life'. I escaped to the bathroom to avoid 'Dallas' and Ally took out the iron again. We are like a laundry here.

I don't discuss current affairs and my opinion of them these days, do I? Well, I'm very anti CND, and very anti Andropov, Foot and Haughey. I also fail to see why the kidnapping of a racehorse should be the main item on the 9 o'clock news. The forthcoming nuclear holocaust has been pushed into the background by this Irish 'equestriana'. The missing horse belongs to the Aga Khan. George Bush has been to see the PM. Should Ronald Reagan, 72, die in his sleep he'd be the most powerful chap to walk the earth since Michael Parkinson.

And so to bed.

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Tuesday February 8, 1983

 Snow on the ground though nothing drastic. I was laughing about something and Ally said I look like Jimmy Tarbuck. Oh dear. To the YP. I was summoned to the office of Mr Malcolm Barker _________. He wanted all the details on the Earl of Halifax and his offspring. (The Princess of Wales was last night at Garrowby to attend a charity function). I filled him in with the facts and he said, of the princess, "she is of course a cousin of Halifax, isn't she?" I said yes, but went away frowning. All the top aristocratic families can of course be linked somewhere. I snatched up Burke's (Peerage) and found that HRH and Halifax are 6th cousins both having a common ancestor in a Duke of Gordon, and in the 2nd Earl Grey, prime minister and KG, &c.

Mrs Slocombe came in after lunch and sat frantically humming. She only does this when in a highly nervous state. Her face-lift is planned for March 1. The humming is always without rhythm and completely void of musical sensitivity.

Tonight I asked Ally to take down Burke's from the shelf and I asked her to select a peer at random and then I would find a relationship with that random peer and the Princess of Wales. She selected Earl Nelson. He is descended from the Duke of Marlborough, and so too is Diana. She then picked a Munro baronet, who has an Ogilvy up his tree back in the 13th century. That's enough for me.

Ally stood ironing and we watched a prehistoric science fiction film about worlds colliding. She grumbles that my taste in films isn't up to much and wanted to tune into 'Brookside' Channel 4's answer to 'Crossroads'. She may well win. When it comes to squabbling about the TV I always give in.

Talk about Saturdays party at Waltergarth _______.

Ally, still with iron in hand, says the Princess of Wales isn't as pretty as she once was. She has lost 'that' look. I think I know what she means. The Sun has a large photo of one of Prince Andrew's so-called aquaintances flashing her tits. It's just too much. The paper also states that the prince is to visit Koo Stark in the states very soon. Awful scandal mongering. Princess Margaret is still going about town with Derek Deane, principal dancer of the Royal Ballet, but this doesn't create the storm it would have done 5 years ago. Funny how things change?

Off to bed. Ally is reading Nancy Mitford and I nothing. I lay watching the damp creeping down the walls. Hurry Mr O'Connor (the roofer). We need you.

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Monday February 7, 1983

 Our alarm tinkled its dawn greeting at 6:44. Splashed in the bath and lay contentedly midst the avocado bubbles contemplating my toe-nails. They need clipping. Ally was bouncing around taking in the joys of February.

To the YP with grim determination. Margo says the 'badger' themed postcard was very successful. Worked without a lunch break and didn't get away until 5. Nothing of importance occurred in my absence. George Howard's son is engaged to Derek Nimmo's daughter. Sir John Taylor, the chairman of Timothy Taylor's brewery is to take the title Lord Ingrow (as in toe-nail). Evidently Ingrow is a hamlet close to his native Keighley. 

I attempted to phone Mum all afternoon but the line was constantly engaged and so I reported it to the Post Office. Home for a ploughman's. Sue phoned at 8. They had been to Horton-in-Ribblesdale yesterday. We joked about Peter. I always tell her that she 'has made a rod for her own back', as Mama used to say. Margaret came to see her today and asked 'how's Christopher and the baby?' Sue gently reminded her mother-in-law that she only has the one baby. Mum then phoned . They've been stripping the walls at Waltergarth and have made headway. They have opened up a fireplace ready for Saturday. They have a letter from Uncle Bert __________. He is getting a train to Settle on Saturday. It is going to be a wild 'do'. Bessie phoned. Frank's foot continues to give pain but he's taking anti-biotics, and using a walking stick.

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Sunday February 6, 1983

 Sexagesima

Her Majesty began her reign 31 years ago this day. Cold and dull. We climbed out of bed and over breakfast we discussed visitng Graham and Charlotte (Smith), but it's been obvious all week that Ally doesn't want to go to Teg Down Meads. She says she has to be in the right mood to visit them, and as yet that mood hasn't materialized. So, I stoked up the fire and buried myself beneath the Sunday Express magazine, to the gentle drumming of Andrew's 'dart board' above. The magazine reveals that Princess Michael of Kent takes her cats to bed with her and Prince Michael says it's like sleeping above an abattoir. An Errol Flynn film came on Channel 4 and Ally made rude comments about the late star's supposed legendary musculature. Much giggling. We lunched on chicken portions and sauce out of a tin. At 5 the BMW pulled up and Frank limped out. Not serious though. He has a septic blister. They both looked tired but insisted on driving us to Victoria. A farce really because Frank got hopelessly lost in London and at 7:45 we leapt from the car and found a taxi which took us a matter of 200 yards  to our destination. We left Frank hopping on one foot and waving his goodbyes. The coach left at 8. Worsening snow as we went further north. We phoned Bessie from a motorway service station to let her know we were safely on our way. In Bradford for 1:30. The taxi from the station cost £1.50. To bed.

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Saturday February 5, 1983

 Ally and I went into Winchester after breakfast and after looking at a splendid pine shop we fell into Mr Pitkin's Wine Bar where we consumed a bottle of red and a stilton ploughman's lunch. On these occasions we usually sit watching people through the bottom of our glasses. Young people know how to dress in Winchester. Mr Pitkin himself is a little queer looking, but Ally doesn't think he's dangerous. We spent £5 and then went across to the bank to use the 'Barclaybank' dispenser, but to our horror we discover we have left our (pin) number back at the house. We marched through the bustling town with a dark cloud hanging over us. Saturday afternoon and no money. I wrote a cheque for petrol. Ally found herself queueing on a zebra crossing and an old man banged his disapproval on the car roof and made violent gestures in the direction of Her Majesty's Prison Winchester. We were steaming mad. I wound down the window and gave him a mouthful, at which Ally threatened to abandon the car altogether. We returned to the house and calmed down with a coffee and a 1938 epic on Channel 4. Cheese on toast later and by now we were smiling beside the glow of the log fire. Andrew went out leaving us alone. I haven't seen a newspaper all week. The (Daily) Express has arrived every day, but that doesn't count as a newspaper.

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Friday February 4, 1983

 We were up at a better time today and went out after breakfast to buy tickets for the homeward journey. £6.50 each from London Victoria to Bradford. I'm sure that 10 years ago it wasn't much under a fiver. We walked hand in hand around the streets. I tried to occupy her and prevent her looking in shoe shops but was unsuccessful. She espied a pair of red ones at a ridiculous price and had to have them. 

We sat inspecting three or four pubs until 2:30. These new fangled space invader machines destroy all the character and atmosphere. In the Bakers Arms it was like sitting through a NATO training exercise in Scandinavia. 

We retired to Chillandham Cross at 3 and prepared dinner. Roast beef, potatoes, sprouts, parsnips, Yorkshire puddings, &c. Poor Andrew has lived on soup for the past three days. Whilst I peeled the spuds Ally sat buried beneath the Hampshire Chronicle and exclaimed that Alan Ayckbourn's play 'Taking Steps' is on at the Theatre Royal, Winchester. Without further ado I phoned and booked a couple of tickets for tonight at £3.30 each. After dinner we drove in to town and the theatre. The play was excellent. By no means hilarious, but amusing. Ally didn't like the ending which came upon us rather suddenly. I had been sitting on top of a steaming radiator in the theatre. We made a quick escape, in pouring rain, to the Cart and Horses at Kings Worthy. Back at Chillandham Cross for 11 we watched a bit of TV with Andrew, who is a bit of a character. He frequently disappears to his room at intervals and strange banging noises always coincide with his absences. Ally convinces herself it's a dart board, but I think it might be something else.

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