Moorhouse Inn
Samuel was awake at 5 and fed and he squealed again at 6:30 and I got up and changed his soggy clothes. He beams with such a glow. Mick Thompson, the stocktaker, was here at 8 and he gave us a £55 defecit. Ridiculous is this. It's a case of think of a number and halve it, or do I mean double it? This Thompson person might be competent but he's only about 16 (or at least he only looks like a teen). Ally refuses to worry because she says it's all just guess work. I agree with her. Ally tried to phone LG but got nowhere. These people must hide behind the furniture at Tadcaster.
After lunch we escaped to Club Street and Ally went over the carpet with a vacuum cleaner and I went out to buy some fish and chips and sniggered at the vociferous fish fryer who was lambasting Nigel Lawson. A letter in the Daily Telegraph says Caligula, in ancient Rome, introduced VAT on takeaway food.
Back to the pub for 8:30 and installed the stereo in the flat. Ally played a Bob Marley LP and jigged around. The sound was exquisite after weeks of the dismal thud of the juke box below. To our beds late after listening to Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald and Grace Jones, &c. We shared a pint of Guinness.
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