Moorhouse Inn
Overcast. Up at 7 for a bowl of Weetabix with my piglets. Breakfast TV trundles interminably on. I went down to clear the beer lines ~ a process which went on until 10. Hung around waiting for the dray which didn't come until about 1. I fear I have ordered too much of everything. Clutching my Mandarine Napoleon as if it's the last bottle on earth. Ally, in a fine bossy mood asked Audrey to wash the shelves which she did with a long, unsmiling face. A bearded pain in the neck was stood in the bar irritating me, but we do have some good little characters. We ate ploughman's lunches. Saw the TV at lunch. The Badminton Horse Trials with HM clad in a headscarf and mac in a ploughed field. Good old Lord Lane has quashed the Tisdall girl's appeal, and rightly so. String 'em up, Maggie, that's what I say.
Knackered. The Piries came over from Ossett, with a team, and we beat them at everything. She is a surly, Australian cow bag. It was a busy tap room because of this soiree, and many regulars abstained including dear Edna Wibley (?) I mean Wilby and old consumptive John. Ally was furious with the Piries who were ignorant to a fault. Jane coped. _______.
Saw the Princess of Wales on the late news at the state banquet for the Emir of Bahrein. She waddled into the Waterloo Chamber looking like a giant sloth.
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