3rd Sunday in Lent. Last Quarter.
Slept in David's bed. The slaves downstairs seem to begin work at dawn. Up at 10:30. We sat knee-deep in Sunday papers and had a massive cooked breakfast. Definitely fragile. David G fighting fit becaus his drinking capacity has been drastically curtailed in recent years. He drinks half pints, you know. Ally played us a waltz on the piano, now downstairs, and Dave took me down and showed me the barrels in the cellar, and just how to change them. He talked with great pride about his 'dear old dad', who taught him the rudiments of running the Hollywood. After breakfast we walked back to the Armoury. (It seems that the lads have stopped coming to the Hollywood on Sundays. Lily is quite upset about it). The pub was busy and I wanted to sit down and so we crossed the road to the Grapes. It's always the case that I just begin to feel human again when the bar shuts. Much reminiscing about Bournemouth '79 and our antics. Ally suggests a weekend at Blackpool. What fun that would be. Back to the Holly at 2. Chicken. I think we all had a chicken each. Sadie the dog is still looking at me as though I have three heads. We sat with grandad and watched the football and part 48m of 'Dombey and Son' and left at 6:30. Dave promises to visit in a couple of weeks. We were home at 9pm. Exhausted. We watched a programme on the Duke of Wellington's tenure of No 10 Downing Street. A cheap production. To bed at 10:30. Lynn was 25 today.
-=-
No comments:
Post a Comment