Monday April 16, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, &c.

Ally was tired out today. I came upstairs at one point and found her sleeping on the couch like a beautiful doll, with Samuel asleep across her lap, his smooth white legs hanging like sausages. 

The brewery.

I phoned Rob Piper at the Butchers and scrounged a lift to Cadtaster (sic). He came at 5 and sat in the car blowing the horn. We drove to the brewery talking about staff and stocks. He has it all sewn up. He does no work and yet has the same staff hours as me. Where am I going wrong? We saw Fran O'Brien in the car park. He is a creeping bastard. We all went into the dull Regency-style room, where LG interviewed us last year, and we sat around a large table covered in a green cloth. Like a billiard table without the holes. About a dozen of us. I was sat between Don Whitfield, and a man with spectacles called Littlejohn-Scott, from the Hansom Cab where he says the clientel are 'heathens'. He looked like Dr Crippen or the murderer Christie. Colin Black is in love with Colin Black. He is about 3ft 6ins tall and suffers from the Napoleon syndrome. LG was his usual self. Dear Donna went through the minutes of the last liaison  committee meeting. Nobody ever says a word. We have eight new beers to sell from next month. David Tyne bought us all a drink in the pub next door and Rob and I left after ten minutes. LG took me on one side and told me that he has put a letter to me in the post re our stocktakes, and I inmmediately thought to myself: 'Aye aye, it's the bloody chop'. What a queer old business this is. It's worse than ancient Rome. Back to the Moorhouse. Ally was coping nicely. Maureen says I look pissed. After two halves of Sam Smith's bitter? Not bloody likely.

-=-