Busy busy. Hurry hurry. Samuel is six weeks old today. Ally sang 'Happy Birthday' at breakfast time. I am feeling settled now and find the Moorhouse so easy after the Why Not, although some lads in the tap room need watching.
This afternoon we dashed home to Bradford to kidnap the Staffordshire pot dogs, lamps and cushions. The place is quite stripped now but we refuse to become sad or nostalgic about Club Street. Times have to change, don't they? We have to move on. We cannot be expected to spend decades of our lives in that declining Bradford suburb. I see myself in ten years time in a tiny, ramshackle of a pub in the middle of rolling countryside with Ally looking lovelier than ever, and four children upstairs playing Ludo with a floppy dog at their feet. How close am I with this?
To Cheap 'n Cheerful too. Hung pictures tonight. The tatty landing at the top of the stairs is now a gallery of pictures. Ally could make Spandau prison comfy. We have been given a leaflet on birth control. Something about the rhythm method. I suppose you make love to Glenn Miller? Oh dear.
Takings: (B) £215, (L) £125
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