Moorhouse Inn
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| Guiseley cemetery. |
A deep sleep again. It's a form of exhaustion I'm sure. Woke at 8:30. Poached eggs. A dull, overcast day. A typical start to a bank holiday. Feel particularly glum. It's a week since Mum was taken. It's obscene. I am having trouble with a toe-nail. It's a hideous sight. I sat in the bath soaking it, much to Samuel's amusement. Maureen suggested cutting the toe out of an old shoe, and this I did. It could set a new fashion. We were supposed to have a bank holiday extension in the bars tonight but I feel so awful, and on top of the festering toe I have a bad stomach too. Feel cold from inside. Ally was upstairs watching "Where Eagles Dare" for the 48,000,000th time. I kept running up and sitting on the toilet. John and Janette are at Horton. Dad, God bless him, is all I have got left to look up to. I phone him every day. Parents are so precious.
(Yesterday, we visited the cemetery at Guiseley in the afternoon. Samuel played in the long grass and we looked at Mum's flowers and stared in disbelief at the wet, clay mound on top of her. It is a quiet corner though. On to Sue's afterwards. Pete was creosoting a fence.)
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