Moorhouse Inn
I played Hercule Poirot tonight and stood at the bar in the tap room mixing with the Hunslet folk and observing the staff. Talked to Kevin, a mechanic, who went on and on about the metro. As you know, cars do nothing for me. Karen and Margaret were working. ______. To bed with Noel Coward (diaries) but I cannot get past 1955. Diaries reveal so much.
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Moorhouse Inn
Samuel was awake at 5 and fed and he squealed again at 6:30 and I got up and changed his soggy clothes. He beams with such a glow. Mick Thompson, the stocktaker, was here at 8 and he gave us a £55 defecit. Ridiculous is this. It's a case of think of a number and halve it, or do I mean double it? This Thompson person might be competent but he's only about 16 (or at least he only looks like a teen). Ally refuses to worry because she says it's all just guess work. I agree with her. Ally tried to phone LG but got nowhere. These people must hide behind the furniture at Tadcaster.
After lunch we escaped to Club Street and Ally went over the carpet with a vacuum cleaner and I went out to buy some fish and chips and sniggered at the vociferous fish fryer who was lambasting Nigel Lawson. A letter in the Daily Telegraph says Caligula, in ancient Rome, introduced VAT on takeaway food.
Back to the pub for 8:30 and installed the stereo in the flat. Ally played a Bob Marley LP and jigged around. The sound was exquisite after weeks of the dismal thud of the juke box below. To our beds late after listening to Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald and Grace Jones, &c. We shared a pint of Guinness.
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Moorhouse Inn
Overcast. Up at 7 for a bowl of Weetabix with my piglets. Breakfast TV trundles interminably on. I went down to clear the beer lines ~ a process which went on until 10. Hung around waiting for the dray which didn't come until about 1. I fear I have ordered too much of everything. Clutching my Mandarine Napoleon as if it's the last bottle on earth. Ally, in a fine bossy mood asked Audrey to wash the shelves which she did with a long, unsmiling face. A bearded pain in the neck was stood in the bar irritating me, but we do have some good little characters. We ate ploughman's lunches. Saw the TV at lunch. The Badminton Horse Trials with HM clad in a headscarf and mac in a ploughed field. Good old Lord Lane has quashed the Tisdall girl's appeal, and rightly so. String 'em up, Maggie, that's what I say.
Knackered. The Piries came over from Ossett, with a team, and we beat them at everything. She is a surly, Australian cow bag. It was a busy tap room because of this soiree, and many regulars abstained including dear Edna Wibley (?) I mean Wilby and old consumptive John. Ally was furious with the Piries who were ignorant to a fault. Jane coped. _______.
Saw the Princess of Wales on the late news at the state banquet for the Emir of Bahrein. She waddled into the Waterloo Chamber looking like a giant sloth.
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Moorhouse Inn, &c.
Samuel woke for a feed at 4am. He hasn't done this for a while and we went back to sleep sluggish and heavy. Sunshine. I played in the cellar and continued mucking out the fryer. Ally went off to Morrison's at 10.
I forgot to say that on Friday Frank H brought us their old settee and armchair - brown, 'velvety' -- it will do until some Louis XIV cast offs from Versailles turn up. Anyway, this afternoon I collapsed on our new item of furniture. Ally disapproves of me sleeping anywhere but in bed and grumbled as I lay, open mouthed, dreaming of a land free from industrial turmoil and where the likes of Arthur Scargill are incarcerated in psychiatric hospitals.
LG turned up at 7:30 and Ally was looking especially lovely to brighten his evening. He wasn't violent about the stock horror but was understanding and helpful. He tapped away on his pocket calculator and had us quite baffled. Rob is coming back on Wednesday to give us a quick check stock. Maureen worked. I escaped for ten minutes to see Mrs Thatcher on 'Panorama' - interviewed by Sir Robin Day. What a level headed excellent woman she is. Bed at 12.
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Passion Sunday
Moorhouse Inn, Leeds.
Lay long in bed. We get worse. Ally is of the opinion that we should pretend we are in our old office jobs and emerge at the same time every morning as in the days when the alarm clock always sounded at 6:44. It is a difficult thing to do though. Scrambled eggs and baked beans. The Sunday Telegraph, &c. Read Al Haig's Falklands reminiscences.
Samuel has said goodbye to many of his baby ways already. Ally went to the bar and worked with Margaret at 12. I played with Samuel and he eventually fell asleep in my arms. I went down briefly to see the darts lads about Tuesday's fiasco, but the team leader is away in Bridlington. Taffy was snooping around.
Later watched Erroll Flynn and Flora Robson in 'The Sea Hawks' and Ally made fish for lunch. Spent the remainder of the afternoon cleaning the deep fat fryers. A revolting job. Watched the Tv but we tend to use it as a backcloth to our chattering. Ally opened up again at 7 and stayed down until after 9. I went down from 9. Looked at snapshots of the recent wedding of Frank and Bernie's daughter. We saw the vicar who said yes to July 22 though it is the date he expects to become a grandfather and so he may be nervous and jittery. We don't want him dropping Samuel in the font. Bed at 12.
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Moorhouse Inn, &c.
Ally was thoroughly exhausted today, and except for emerging to see to our son and heir at his feeding and changing she remained firmly entrenched in our vast bed. I stayed upstairs playing with Samuel. One cannot leave him awake and alone. He has changed these past few days. Taking more notice, giggling louder, and looking at his fingers.
Will John come today? ______. Ally slumbered on into the afternoon and I persuaded her to get up and eat at 4. Then, when I opened up at 7, it was back to bed. Just Margaret and I. A quiet night. Had cheese toasties (again) and after closing I watched a dull Dracula film. Finally I got a chance to look at the Daily Telegraph. Marshal of the RAF Sir Arthur 'Bomber' Harris is no longer with us. So too goes Sir Mark Milbank, Bt, former Master of the Royal Household.
And so, to bed, dear reader.
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Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
Frances is three today. She spoke sweetly to me yesterday on the phone and sounded so grown up. She is a difficult child to get to know and seems morbid and petty at times but is a gentle thing. Received cards from Sarah and Jacq.
Prince Andrew has been banished to St Helena, no doubt because of Koo Stark and Katie Rabett. He is making a stout Hanoverian prince and will not retain his good looks for very long.
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| John Wilson (1853-1920) |
Someone was sick in the porch. Carrots abound. Why does veg feature so much in vomit? Upstairs with the relatives at 11. They all peeped in on Samuel. Bed late after I made beefburger suppers all round.
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Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11
My 29th birthday. Up at 7 feeling awful. Sitting in bed Ally gave me a pink and blue tie and a card with a frog on the front. A card - to 'Daddy from Samuel' - brought a lump to my throat.
A traumatic birthday really. Rob, the stocktaker, came at 8:30, and LG at 9 with the new optics. We have a £142 defecit which was something of a body blow. The loss is in the draught bitter and lager. Mum and Dad went off to Guiseley at 3 and we sat wearily. I worked all evening like a zombie. Margaret bought me a brandy for my birthday and at 10:30 I was heartily glad to go upstairs. John phoned to say 'happy birthday' at 10:45. Poor Ally says I have had an awful birthday but I am contented. I have a son who is beautiful beyond belief and a wife who is an angel.
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Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11
Out into town at 9 with Samuel. The boy despises head gear and kicks and struggles when Mummy dresses him. Crisp and sunny. Ally headed straight to Laura Ashley. We dumped the pram near the curtain fabrics and went upstairs. An elderly spinster, very plain and very large, was trying on a wedding frock and looked like Mount Kilimanjaro. We hurried back and found Mama and Papa upstairs. They helped with the lunches and we had a few drinks afterwards. The Mandarine Napoleon came out. They say John has made an offer for a house on Back Lane. We had no idea he wanted to move.The house that Sue wanted on Moorland Crescent is no longer on the market, and they are going to look elsewhere. We drank in the bar until Maureen came in at 5:30 and we went upstairs. I was furious when Maureen told me later that the Piries had called in after arranging a darts and dominoes evening here on April 10. The bloody cheek of it. I wasn't consulted.
Samuel was niggly and playing up. He must know that we want to go out and leave him. He was in bed for 9pm and at 9:45 we hurried into town and the bistro on Commercial Street (it is the former Betty's Tea Rooms). A disappointing dinner. I had veal in horrible cooking sherry - so sweet. It was supposed to be veal marsala. I didn't let on to Ally that I was disappointed. She also had veal, but in a mushroom sauce. I was pissed and staggered out stripping down the stairs. Ally looking beautiful in a peppermint striped Laura Ashley creation purchased today. Back to the Moorhouse for 11:30. Samuel had been awake until 11 and was now sleeping peacefully. We went down to the empty pub and sat in the lounge. My God, I enter my 30th year tomorrow. To bed after 3am.
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Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11
Busy with food. Dray day. All banked. Bloody Hell, it's all go.
Jane (Tudor) worked tonight. Old Harold says she is a calming influence on the tap room rowdies. She is slow but I'm sure she's reliable.
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Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11
Pisses down. Albert Tatlock is dead. Joan Parkinson left and went without the theatricals I was expecting. I was kissed goodbye, which was nauseating.
Balderdash in the papers about the Princess of Wales expecting twins. Rot.
Are people taking drugs in our tap room? The ever watchful Edna insists they are. I must admit that a certain element of the clientel are very 'Dylanish' and look like renmants of the long gone hippie era. Will I go down if the beloved CID raid the bar? Dad will have to be consulted. I do not want to be running a den of iniquity.
Samuel beams. He's sturdier. Looking very much like Frank but Ally giggles and says it's only because they are both bald with sticking out ears.
This Gary Hart person is frightening. He's been going everywhere in the US telling everybody he's Irish. They say he's taking the rise out of the Kennedys. Blimey, he'll be drowning his secretary next. Modale is a spineless fart.
To bed relieved at Joan's departure. Knackered.
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A warm, gentle day. Ally and I took off to town with Samuel at 1pm. We didn't take the pram and I carried baby for two hours, by the end...
