4th Sunday after Easter
Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11
Warm start, warm later, but rain. I enjoy Sundays, but got up feeling awful after last night. My throat like the bottom of a parrot's cage. I went down at let Ann in. She's 73 and still cleaning. Standing in the dark in my cool cellar did wonders for my headache. Poor Ally. She looks, and feels, like a dead fish. Breakfast on eggs and bacon. Samuel held a rusk and snacked on it. Despite her frail, wet fish-like condition Ally is jovial and beaming. It must be love.
Sunday lunchtime. Just Margaret and I. 'Big Mick's' friends and widow came in to play pool. The widow told me that she has to come out as usual or 'go mad' at home. The poor girl looked ghastly. The funeral is on Friday. I do hope she doesn't think I am going. Like the Queen I restrict my attendance at funerals to only close family members. Upstairs at 2:30. Saw crap on the TV. Look at the (Sunday) Telegraph. Sir John Betjeman, poet laureate, died yesterday aged 78. Was he having an affair with Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, Princess Margaret's lady-in-waiting? We shall see. I have never taken much of a shine to poetry. 'If I should die' by Rupert Brooke I find very touching, but Betjeman's stuff about railway stations leaves me cold. 'If I should die' is actually called 'The Soldier'. Sorry. Wrapped Ally's gifts and bathed Samuel. He shits everywhere most horribly. Ally and I both downstairs tonight. Lynn phoned to say happy birthday to Ally. She was in one of her odd, distant moods.
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