Wednesday May 30, 1984

The Moorhouse Inn.

 New Moon

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

More sun. A partial eclipse of the sun this evening, but it avoided doing it over Leeds. Slept until almost 8am. Felt awful. Samuel had wailed throughout the night and found no solace whatsoever. Ally like a mad woman. I forgort to report - we had a stocktake yesterday. A £48 surplus. This is good. Mind you, I do worry about young Thompson, the stocktaker. He has gone platinum blonde and there he was bending over the beer barrels doing his count looking very much like the late Diana Dors.

Dray day. Got next to nothing because I ordered too much last week. The dray men told me tales of the insane landlord at the Red Lion, Leeds. The boiler men are still in the cellar, but say they might finish tomorrow. 

A warm, summers afternoon. Ally took Samuel across the park to the shops. He lay in his pram with his tubby legs wide apart and slept throughout. He is sitting watching me now (as I write) with dinner all over his face, spreading his naked toes, no flexing them, in the afternoon breeze wafting through the open window. What a beautiful thing is a child.

Just Karen worked tonight. Maureen McNicol, our dear cleaner, is 44 today. People bought her endless vodkas. She got into a slanging match with Edna's estranged son-in-law and blows were almost exchanged. I was told to fuck off. Dear me. 

News: Arthur Scargill has been arrested outside a steelworks. Shoot the bugger. That's what I say. Lord Glamis, heir to the Earl of Strathmore, and scion of the house of Bowes Lyon is betrothed to a certain Isobel Weatherall. Is she perhaps a younger sister of Catherine Weatherall now Mrs Nicholas Soames?