My granddad died in 1983. For the previous 20 years, he kept a diary, recording his day as a farm worker and then through his retirement. We are lucky enough to have his notebooks, all the entries in block capitals, often in pencil. He always tells us about the weather, sometimes about what is going well at the allotment. We get updates of how Liverpool are doing and the occasional political thought. He suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, was always in pain, but you would never know from these entries. My mum once described him as a contented man. Who knows, really, but certainly, there is something soothing about these entries. So I thought I would share them with you. We have a few years to cover so buckle up.
Frost again last night but a lovely sunny day. Cleaned out both flues. Also No. 2 jet. Put wire round the new office block. Saw Jackie Iddon. Gave Moreen some more Argosys.
(I think Argosys are short story magazines.)
(Back tracking to yesterday, my mum tells me that Roy Allen was Granddad’s sister, Daisy’s son. “He was disliked by everyone except Grandad. One of the most posey people.”)
My Granddad is Keeping Busy 