Up at noon. Lynne is bounding around the bedroom with the vitality of a six year-old. What can this be? Well, she has finally been horse riding this morning, and it certainly seems to have done the trick.
We have breakfast of bacon, sausages and eggs accompanied by Karl on the guitar. Later we, that is Lynne Mr & Mrs M and I, go to Filey for the afternoon. What a miserable dead loss that place it is. Murky just isn't the word. Gruesome, yes. A holiday at this so-called resort would undoubtedly maim, or even kill, a person of a weak mental disposition. We spent an hour or more looking for the centre to do some shopping before realising we were 'in it'. 'In it' is quite an appropriate expression, mate.
That night. To the Penthouse in Scarborough [see Aug 10, 1974] which is enjoyable. The clientel isn't what you might call elite, and a Bohemian atmosphere prevails. When I was last there I was too well dressed for the occasion. Lynne was a bit pissed by 2am. She didn't utter a single word on the drive back to Thornton-le-Dale. Have the usual ritual of cheese on toast back at Ty-Onnen. _____.
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