Moorhouse Inn
Day one of the a la carte menu. Obviously, nobody took advantage of our culinary delights, but eventually I'm sure we'll knock some sense into them. Audrey sniffed at the typed pages listing pâté, mackerel salad, and chocolate gateau. 'They've all tried this before', &c. Ally was in a collapsed state and slept from 2pm. I bathed Samuel and went down covered in suds, etc, at 5:30 to serve ale to the great unwashed. Or in this case to the few unwashed, because the place was dead. Still, one must battle on.
Peerage news: Lord Glasgow is pushing up the daisies and so too is Viscount Lymington, a Wallop, and a kinsman of Carolyn Herbert. Lady Rupert Nevill's brother, no less.
Samuel now plays with squeaky things and uses his initiative more. Every day we see him doing more and more and the changes in him are too numerous to record. I cannot write about him adequately. He is just perfection. It, and by it I mean parenthood, is the greatest gift bestowed upon us mortals. Those who have not experienced children have not lived.
Dr Glass has sent Susan home for a week but if nothing happens this week he wants her back in on Sunday. Her D-Day is June 20. Susan always has 12 month pregnancies. Mum and Dad are flitting between Horton and Guiseley burning petrol as if there is no tomorrow. Like blue-arsed flies, no less.
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