Moorhouse Inn, Leeds
Dismal and wet. Out of bed sluggish at 8. I concocted a fried repast for my slumbering partner in crime. We spent a couple of hours just sat the the breakfast table watching Samuel with his egg and 'gurkhas'. I prefer gurkhas to soldiers. Particularly when the bread is brown.
The boiler men have finished the central heating conversion and went away leaving the heat belting out and with thermostats fixed and out of control. The place is positively tropical. Perhaps the heat will help sell more ale. It has been a bad week for food. Nobody wants to eat at bank holiday time. Pathetic.
Ally and I went down at 8:30 and sat with Audrey and Terry. Both are making the best of Sharon's departure and seem to think she won't stick it and will be back. Terry went home pissed at 10:30. Big Brian was in again talking about 'Wilf at the Eagle'. We had no visitors. Later saw a French film about Louis XIV but fell asleep just after the arrest of Fouquet. The buzzing of the TV woke me at 1am.
Read in the DT that the Prince of Wales has been criticising the architecture of today. I agree. Most of it is monstrous. What names will go down in history for creating buildings of beauty in the 20th century? Bugger all. Come back William Kent, Inigo Jones, Sir John Vanbrugh, &c. Lutyens, now he is probably the only decent builder of this century. Blocks of glass and concrete do nothing for me. Good old Wales. You tell 'em.
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