Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11
Pisses down. Albert Tatlock is dead. Joan Parkinson left and went without the theatricals I was expecting. I was kissed goodbye, which was nauseating.
Balderdash in the papers about the Princess of Wales expecting twins. Rot.
Are people taking drugs in our tap room? The ever watchful Edna insists they are. I must admit that a certain element of the clientel are very 'Dylanish' and look like renmants of the long gone hippie era. Will I go down if the beloved CID raid the bar? Dad will have to be consulted. I do not want to be running a den of iniquity.
Samuel beams. He's sturdier. Looking very much like Frank but Ally giggles and says it's only because they are both bald with sticking out ears.
This Gary Hart person is frightening. He's been going everywhere in the US telling everybody he's Irish. They say he's taking the rise out of the Kennedys. Blimey, he'll be drowning his secretary next. Modale is a spineless fart.
To bed relieved at Joan's departure. Knackered.
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